


Obliviate

by blueraven1340



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mild Sexual Content, Post Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-03-17 01:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueraven1340/pseuds/blueraven1340
Summary: It's been seven years since the end of the war, and everyone has moved on. Harry's friends have jobs, marriages, and lives that seem to move forward while every day, he's moving back. Being obliviated doesn't really help matters.





	1. Afterwards

When Harry woke up, it was a bright, Sunday afternoon at St. Mungo’s. Healers and visitors bustled about, looking after patients, weaving in and out of rooms – completely oblivious to the fact that the great Saviour himself was actually in their midst. Ron, Hermione, and Harry’s supervisor at the Ministry, Robards, hoped to keep it that way.

Of course, Harry’s primary Healer was in the know as well. He was sworn to secrecy, through both magical and non-magical means. Hermione had taken care of both counts when Harry chose him several years ago, and she had never been more grateful for it. Because this was one crisis the rest of the wizarding world should never stick their noses into. For their own sanity, as much as Harry’s.

When he received the news that Sunday, Harry was ready to believe that he actually _had_ gone insane.

Harry sat on the soft, white hospital bed, staring at Ron and Hermione, who looked just the same as he remembered, if admittedly, a bit older.

“So you’re telling me,” he said, through gritted teeth. “That I’ve just lost seven years of my life.”

Ron shrugged jerkily, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s…yeah.”

“Harry,” said Hermione, catching the look on Harry’s face. “We know it’s a lot to take in. I’m – I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”

Harry sat up straighter, his fists shaking on top of the sheets. “No,” he said. “You can’t. Bloody hell, Hermione, the last thing I remember is going to sleep at the Burrow. We’d just won the war, and we were thinking about going back to Hogwarts, and Ginny was planning a surprise party...and – and you’re saying that happened, all of it, seven years ago? Hermione, I was about to be eighteen, not bloody twenty-five! I can’t just skip over seven years of my life, that’s just – that’s –”

“Unfair?” said Hermione, her eyes shining. “I know. I really do, Harry, but we’ll make it right. It’s been a few years since I’ve researched memory spells, but I’ve already looked at a few of my old books and of course it’s all very complicated but –”

“Point is,” said Ron, leaning forward. “We’re here for you mate. Whatever you need.”

Hermione shot Ron an irritated look, but she didn’t go on. Instead, she took Harry’s hand and squeezed it with fingers a bit softer than he remembered.

Harry still shook with anger, with panic, for a second, but then he couldn’t help relaxing a bit with a sigh. This was familiar. Hermione’s helping hand and the fierce loyalty from his best friends, it eased him a little. This, at least, hadn’t changed.

Then he looked down at Hermione’s hand and, with a jolt, saw a wedding ring.

Harry stared.

He supposed it made sense. Ron and Hermione were hinting at marriage, even at eighteen, but that had still been a Future thing. An Adult thing. All three of them had just been through a war, but it was still hard to imagine an adult life, or anything about the future, really. At the time, it had stretched on before them, full of possibility, of careers, marriages, happiness, and life.

Now, seven years later, they had done all of that already. Harry just didn’t remember any of it.

He looked away. “Do they know who did this to me?” he said.

“We don’t,” said Hermione. “We aren’t even exactly sure what happened.”

“Robards just said you were on some kind of mission when he brought you in,” said Ron. “Any more information is ‘classified’, like I haven’t worked for him for, what, two years now? The git,” he added with distaste.

Robards? Mission? Work? Harry shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “He didn’t say anything else?”

“No, mate,” said Ron. “Sorry.”

“But how are they going to fix this if they don’t have the original caster?” said Harry. He wracked his brain, trying to remember all of Hermione’s spiels about memory spells. She’d become obsessed with them after the war, afraid that if she didn’t know absolutely everything, it would all come to nothing when she tried to reverse the spell she put on her parents.

Harry would have to ask her about that. He added it to his rapidly growing list of everything he didn’t know.

Hermione smiled, as if she knew exactly what Harry was thinking. “That only applies when you’re implanting a false memory,” she said. “In that case, only the caster knows the unique complexities of the charm; therefore, only he or she can safely work backwards from its implementation to lift the charm entirely.”

Hermione shifted in her seat. “The Obliviate Hex is slightly different. Once it’s cast, the caster has no control or ownership over the actual memories; those are still yours and yours alone. However, what exactly happens to disconnect the lost memories from the victim of the spell is not entirely known. From previous case studies, it’s clear that you can access them again, given time, but it doesn’t happen for everyone.”

“Not to discourage you, Harry,” she added quickly. She squeezed his hand, her wide eyes worried. “Of course, there are plenty of people who recover from being obliviated. It doesn’t seem like there were any complications when it was cast on you either.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Lucky me.”

Ron snorted.

“It is, though,” said Hermione sternly, though her mouth twitched. “There are so many things that can go wrong when you Obliviate someone.”

Harry thought suddenly of Lockhart. He looked at Ron and Hermione. He knew them, at least, even if they were older and wearing clothes he’d never seen. His blood ran cold at the thought of not having even that, of being washed completely of who he was, what he’d known. He shivered.

Harry leaned back on the bed. “It’s just not fair,” he said. It sounded petulant and childish, but he didn’t care.

“Life’s not fair, mate,” said Ron solemnly.

Harry looked over to see Ron’s mouth twitch. “Sod off,” he said, rolling his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling a little too.

None of this was all right. He wasn’t reassured, he wasn’t relieved, he had lost his memories, for Merlin’s sake. But he still had this. He had Ron and Hermione, here, by his side, ready to support him no matter what. And maybe he wouldn’t get his memories back. Maybe he’d always feel stuck seven years in the past, only moving forward as if in a dream. But right now, right here, he felt that maybe, it just might turn out all right.

 

“This is never going to work,” said Harry, five days later.

Ron and Hermione grimaced from across the table, looking just as weary. They were in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, which Harry had apparently moved into five years ago. Before that, he had been living with Ron at a flat in Muggle London. They’d canceled the lease when Ron and Hermione got engaged, Ron getting an apartment with Hermione and Harry moving into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Much like Harry’s summer when he was fifteen, they spent most of that year clearing out the house for Harry’s habitation. “The place was a nightmare, honestly,” Ron had said, when recalling it. Harry, all too able to imagine what it must have been like, grimaced in commiseration.

Now, however, it looked completely fine. Normal, even. They sat in a bright kitchen with modern-looking appliances and a cheery fireplace that was currently unlit. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, looked positively gloomy as they stared at the pensieve directly in front of them.

“Maybe we just aren’t showing you the right memories,” said Hermione. She was the only one who still looked the least bit hopeful.

“Yeah, and maybe I’ll never know what Parvati’s knickers look like,” said Harry, leaning his head on the table. Apparently, they had dated for a few months, until she dumped him for reasons Ron and Hermione claimed they didn’t know.

“Harry,” Hermione admonished while Ron snorted.

“Just joking, Hermione,” said Harry, smiling a little. “It’s just – none of this seems to be working. I must’ve been through hundreds of memories this past week, and I haven’t recognized a single one of them.”

“These things take time, Harry,” said Hermione. “And I know Ron and I have been with you for a lot of things, but maybe if you looked at some other people’s memories too –”

“I will,” said Harry, avoiding her eyes.

A few days ago, his healer had discharged Harry from St. Mungo’s, saying that since he was physically stable, he should familiarize himself with his forgotten memories as soon as possible. Part of this was going back home, but largely, it involved actually looking through memory after memory of his past seven years through other people’s eyes.

At first, it had been disconcerting. They started with Eighth Year at Hogwarts, and Harry just couldn’t shake how odd it was to see him eating at the start-of-term banquet or lounging around in the Gryffindor common room, not remembering any of it. It was almost as bizarre as watching six other people transform into him after drinking Polyjuice Potion.

In his final year, Harry was given the option to be Quidditch Captain again. He’d turned it down, telling McGonagall that he’d rather take it easy. And for the most part, he did. Classes were just as he remembered: sometimes engaging, sometimes dull, and a lot of hard work. Mostly, they went to parties in different houses, comforted each other, and avoided the larger public. Around exam time, they pretty much lived in the library. It was all incredibly strange to watch.

After a while, though, Harry got used to it. Every now and then something would catch him off guard, but on the whole, his future as an ordinary wizard (meaning a wizard not being viciously hunted down by a Dark Lord) turned out to look – well, ordinary.

After Hogwarts, he and Ron entered auror training and Hermione started an apprenticeship at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They met up every weekend and went out sometimes, catching up with each other one night and with the rest of the DA for another.

When they were twenty, Ron proposed to Hermione – in full view of everyone from Percy to Hermione’s parents – and several months later, they were married.

That, at least, had been nothing less than extraordinary.

It had taken place at the Burrow. Everyone came, and Hermione looked beautiful in her mum’s old wedding gown, Ron dashing in brand new dress robes. The food looked delicious, everyone happy. The reception was golden, airy, large, and completely free of ominous messages from Kingsley. Kingsley himself, or Minister Shacklebolt in this new world, was actually there. He danced with Hermione, McGonagall, and even Aunt Muriel. Harry, also in new dress robes (and his own skin), gave an impressive speech that, much to Ron’s amusement, made the Harry watching himself tear up.

The rest of their life didn’t even compare.

In their early twenties, Harry and Ron finally finished training. They became fully-fledged aurors, working as partners until Harry got pulled for some ‘secret mission’ about a year ago. Hermione graduated to a legal assistant, working with magical creatures, until she transferred over to the Department of Mysteries. She and Ron seemed happy with their marriage. Harry, on the other hand, seemed to stay away from relationships.

Apparently, he and Ginny had a falling out. Ron and Hermione weren’t too clear on the details, getting shifty whenever he tried to talk about it. They said he should hear the story from Ginny herself, an excuse Harry didn’t entirely agree with, even if he understood. All he knew for now was that it happened shortly after his eighteenth birthday and that yes, he’d been broken up about it, but it wasn’t long before they were back on good terms.

Harry went along with this explanation, but he wasn’t sure how much of it he actually believed. In the seven-year interval between then and now, Harry soon realized he hadn’t truly been with anyone since Ginny. Parvati turned out to be his longest relationship, and that had barely lasted five months, followed by a French witch whose bad attitude managed to Neville cry.

If anything, his long-term relationship became his work. As much as Ron and Hermione tried to hide it, it wasn’t difficult to figure out that his work steadily ate up most of Harry’s life. When Harry lost Ron as his partner and Hermione became nearly as work-obsessed as Harry after her transfer, Harry’s social life dwindled down to almost nothing.

He showed up to everyone’s weddings: Dean and Luna’s, Oliver Wood’s, George and his assistant, Verity’s, and Hagrid’s, with Madam Maxime. He also hung out with Ron and Hermione every now and then. Outside of that, however, the last few years of his life seemed to have been spent largely on his own. 

This worried Harry. When imagining his future, he’d never have thought it would look like this, filled with nothing but work, loneliness, and the occasional weekend out.

Considering this, Harry didn’t really see the point of looking at other people’s memories. Hermione had been suggesting it more and more lately, especially since they seemed to be getting no closer to retrieving his lost memories than they were on day one. Harry knew he had to, eventually. Just not yet. He doubted it would actually help, and honestly, he was nervous about meeting everyone again.

They had all changed so much, grown older, gotten married, grasped control of their past and moved forward into the future. But Harry? It seemed that both his past and present self were still stuck there, in life just months after the war.

Hermione opened her mouth, probably to argue with him more, until suddenly, they heard something tapping on the kitchen window. Harry tensed immediately, still not used to feeling safe in here, of all places.

Ron just stared at the window, looking puzzled. Hermione got up to open it. An owl flew in, looking ruffled and slightly annoyed at having to wait for the invitation. It hopped onto the kitchen table with importance and stuck its leg out in Harry’s direction.

Looking around at Ron and Hermione, Harry steeled himself. He took the message from the owl as Hermione prepared a bowl of water.

“Who’s it from?” said Ron.

“Dunno,” said Harry. The parchment was heavy and coloured a creamy white like letters from Hogwarts. He turned it over. It was blank. “There’s no return address.”

“Well go on then,” said Ron, when Harry didn’t open it.

“Do you reckon it’s safe?” he said.

“The wards around your house are pretty strong,” said Hermione. The owl gave a soft hoot of appreciation as she set down the bowl of water for him. “If that letter was cursed with anything, it shouldn’t have been able to come through.”

When Harry still hesitated, Hermione placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Harry,” she said softly. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to hurt you, at least, not from your own home. It’s safe here. I promise.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. This was rich, considering someone had just obliviated a good bit of his life, but he still nodded, rubbing his thumb over the smooth parchment.

Taking a deep breath, Harry went ahead and opened the letter. Ron and Hermione squeezed in, reading it alongside him, but it didn’t take any of them long. In small, neat cursive, it said:

_Starstruck,_

_Five minutes after midnight._

_\- Q_

Each of them stared a good bit longer after they finished.

Finally, Ron said, “Starstruck?”

Harry just shook his head. “Q?”

“It sounds like an answer to something,” said Hermione, scanning the parchment for probably the tenth time.

“To what?” said Harry.

Hermione looked pained. “I don’t know,” she said. “The actual content is probably referring to something that had happened or something that will happen, unless it’s code for something, which is possible considering the use of codenames in the rest of the letter and your profession, Harry. In that case, it could mean anything –”

“I reckon it’s some weird fan mail,” said Ron, leaning back in his chair. “Been a while since you’ve had those.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense on its own,” said Hermione. She took the letter out of Harry’s hands, bringing it closer to her face as she sat down.

“Well, not like they ever do,” said Ron, shrugging. “They’re crazy, the lot of them.”

Harry leaned onto the table, glancing at the pensieve that was still shimmering with its last memory. “Maybe I’m having an affair,” he said wearily. “You know, ‘starstruck’ and all that.”

Honestly, for all he knew about his past, he could be. Hermione just gave him an annoyed look, while Ron snorted.

“Then what would ‘Q’ stand for?” he said. “Queer?”

A lot of things seemed to happen at once. Harry started to laugh, but it died as Hermione froze, sending Ron a panicked look that he matched with a look of dawning horror.

“What?” said Harry. He sat up, staring. “What is it?”

Hermione broke first. “Nothing,” she said. Her voice was high-pitched and strained. She started to fold up the letter.

“Hermione,” said Harry. “What is it?”

When she said nothing, Ron put a hand on her arm. “Hermione,” he said softly. He leaned down and whispered something. She whispered back, sounding angry, and Harry looked on, growing more and more irritated by the second.

“Just  _tell_  me,” he said, cutting into their whispered conversation, or argument. “For Merlin’s sake, I’m not a child.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Harry, I’m sorry,” she said. “But Jerry told us –”

“Fuck Merwick,” said Harry, exhaling sharply.

Jerry Merwick was his primary Healer, tall and handsome with an affable personality. He was nice enough all right, but Harry thought he coddled him too much.

Ron snorted. “He’s not your type, mate,” he said.

“That’s not really the point here, is it?”

“Actually,” said Hermione, looking nervous. “It kind of is.”

Harry stared at them. When they didn’t go on, he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t understand what the hell you two are on about,” he said.

“Harry,” said Hermione. Her voice was calm and level, like she was approaching a wild hippogriff. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hermione glanced at Ron, who nodded encouragingly. She went on, looking irritated. “Jerry isn’t your type because you usually like men and women who have a bit more…personality.”

“To put it mildly,” Ron added under his breath.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“She’s saying you’re bi, Harry,” said Ron, slowly as if that would take away the shock of it.

“I’m…what?”

“Look, it might make more sense if we told you the whole story,” said Hermione, in a rush. “Ron?”

Ron grimaced, but he seemed more worried than annoyed when he looked at Harry. He hesitated for a second. After a prod from Hermione, he spoke.

“Er, you remember that Muggle club, Nightshade?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Ron shifted in his seat. “Well, the three of us were there, right,” he said. “This was a few days after you broke up with Ginny, and we figured you could do with a bit of cheering up. You got sort of hammered, and we lost track of you for a bit – or I did, at least. But next thing I know, Hermione’s tapping on my shoulder, telling me to look over, and I see you snogging some bloke. I didn’t know what to do, honestly. Hermione said to just let you be, and I figured she knew better than me, so we let you get on with it. But it was a complete nightmare trying to get you home, you wouldn’t let go of that poor sod until we got you sober enough to realize what you were doing.”

Ron paused to choke back a laugh. He cleared his throat.

“You’re, uh, probably better off not remembering that. Anyway, we didn’t really talk about it much. But then next year, we went to Hogwarts, and…”

He faltered. He glanced at Hermione, who gave him a look that clearly said, “You started this. You finish it.”

Harry just stared. He felt like one of them was slowly suffocating him, but he didn’t know which. Maybe both.

Ron scowled. He ran a hand through his hair and looked back at Harry. “So we went back to Hogwarts,” he said. “And you, uh, got a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend,” said Harry, like he had never heard of such a thing before.

Ron smiled weakly at him. “Yeah.”

Harry looked between him and Hermione. “But…that’s impossible,” he said. “We went through your memories at Hogwarts. I didn’t have a – I didn’t have anyone.”

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other, looking uncomfortable.

“We didn’t know how you’d take it, Harry,” said Hermione.

Comprehension dawned on Harry, and a lick of fury seemed to race up his spine. “You hid it from me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“We were going to tell you –”

“Fuck!” Harry jumped up from his chair, blood rushing through his ears. Hermione looked alarmed, but he didn’t care. “First you won’t tell me what really happened with Ginny and now this?” he said, glaring at them. “What else are you keeping from me? Fucking hell, I’m going through a hundred memories every sodding day for a _reason_!”

“We know, Harry!” said Hermione. “But –”

“No, you don’t know!” Harry yelled. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up seven years older, to wake up every day knowing that I’m probably never going to get those seven years back, and I gave my life for this world, for some fucking peace and happiness, not for _this_!”

Harry kicked his chair, reveling in the sudden crack of wood. The owl gave a loud hoot and flew over to the counter. It looked back reproachfully.

Ron stared at Harry, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to say something, but Hermione spoke before he could.

“Harry, we wanted to tell you. We were going to, but Jerry –”

Harry rounded on her. “FUCK JERRY!”

Ron stood up. “Fine.” Harry looked him. “You want to know?” he said, his freckled face determined. “Fine, we’ll tell you. No more secrets, all right?”

Hermione got up as well. “Ron,” she said.

“Hermione, he’s got a right to know.”

There was an awkward silence, where the three of them just stood there, waiting for someone to speak. The owl ruffled its feathers.

Harry screwed his eyes shut. He imagined the silent conversation Ron and Hermione were having, and his head gave a nasty throb.

“Who was it?” he said.

“What?” said Ron.

Harry opened his eyes. “My – boyfriend,” he said, grimacing. “Who was it?”

“Er, you mean the one from Hogwarts?” said Ron.

Harry gaped. “Were there more than one?”

“You’ve been with quite a few men, actually,” said Hermione hesitantly. “But I don’t think you were ever very serious about any of them.” She glanced at Ron. “Except for the one you were with at Hogwarts, but that didn’t exactly end well. That’s mostly why we didn’t want to mention it to you, Harry, you were a bit – well, brokenhearted afterwards, and –”

Harry leaned back against the counter behind him, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me who it was,” he said.

Ron and Hermione exchanged anxious glances. Harry’s headache grew worse. Before he could yell the question at them, Ron finally answered.

“It was Draco Malfoy, mate,” he said. At the look on Harry’s face, he grimaced, shrugging. “Sorry.”

 

Harry lay in his bed later that night, his head still spinning. This new world he’d been obliviated into was a complete mess. Not that his life had ever been easy, but this? Wasn’t life supposed to become less complicated, after getting rid of Riddle?

He was bi. He had dated Draco Malfoy. He felt like he’d entered into some weird nightmare, and that any second, he’d wake up safe and sound and straight at the Burrow.

Harry stared up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. He still slept in Sirius’s old room, apparently, and it hadn’t changed too much from what he remembered. The Muggle posters were still there, just painted over, and the picture of his father and the rest of the Marauders still hung just above his bed. The bed itself was much comfier and cleaner, much like the rest of the room. After a few nights spent sleeping there, he still didn’t remember anything about it, the renovations, his life. And after almost a week, the future was still overwhelming him in the worst possible ways.

After his anger at Ron and Hermione subsided, Harry found he didn’t really know how to feel about all this. He supposed it was a good thing that he found a relationship so soon after Ginny, if a year’s gap was ‘soon’. Yet, it hadn’t lasted, and it had been with _Malfoy_ , of all people. Maybe he was just shit at relationships. It didn’t sound too far off the mark, but it was still depressing to think about.

And of course, the whole bloke thing. Yeah, he definitely didn’t know how to feel about that.

Although, when Harry reflected back on so many years of noticing and vaguely fantasizing, of hard muscles and deep voices, it sort of made sense. He shivered a little at having this bone-deep knowledge suddenly out in the open, but he wasn’t entirely bothered by it.

The greatest problem right now, though, wasn’t all of that. It was Malfoy.

Because  _Malfoy?_  Seriously? Yes, Harry had testified at his trial, but he also did that for his mother, and he hadn’t dated  _her._  Merlin, that would’ve been absolutely horrifying. He supposed he should be grateful for small mercies.

But Malfoy was just…Malfoy. An arrogant git who spent the better part of his formative years doing everything he could to make Harry’s life even worse than it already was. He hadn’t deserved what happened to him, of course not, but that didn’t stop him from being a git.

Or, so he thought. Until now. Harry just couldn’t see himself being with the Malfoy he knew, but what if Malfoy had changed? The war had changed a lot of people, himself among them, evidently. Was there any other explanation?

Unless Ron and Hermione were keeping something else from him. Harry scowled bitterly at the ceiling.

Well, first off, Malfoy wasn’t necessarily ugly. It was difficult to think of him in that light, in handsome or attractive or whatever. But if he had to choose, Harry would say that the git wasn’t unattractive. He hadn’t looked so great in the last few years, what with death practically breathing down his neck, but even then, he had a haunted sort of beauty.

Harry blinked.

Beauty?

He shook his head.

The more he thought about it, the more curious he felt about the whole matter. He had sort of stormed off after hearing about Malfoy, so he didn’t get any of the details. At the time, he thought he hadn’t wanted any. Because surely it had to be some kind of joke? A gigantic prank, maybe, courtesy of the universe.

But then he began wondering, how did it happen? How long had it gone on? Were they happy, or did they just make each other miserable? What had he said about Malfoy? What had Malfoy said about him?

Harry lay there, these thoughts swirling around in his mind, until he couldn’t take it anymore and started pacing his room.

What had they talked about? What could he and Malfoy possibly have in common? Quidditch, maybe, although he couldn’t imagine any conversation there that didn’t end in a fight. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine any conversation between them that didn’t end in one of them getting hurt.

What did they do? Go on dates? Harry snorted at the image of him and Malfoy, scowling over tea at Madam Puddifoot’s. They probably hadn’t done that, but then what did they do? Make out in abandoned corridors, like he did with Ginny?

Harry stilled. That…he couldn’t imagine that. And then another thought occurred to him:

Did they sleep together?

A flood of fantasy suddenly assaulted him: Malfoy’s flushed face beneath him, his white hair spilled over scarlet sheets, his pale skin, his posh accent…

Harry shook his head, almost violently. He ran a hand through his hair for possibly the millionth time. He probably looked crazy. He definitely felt like it.

More and more he felt like the answer to all this was just to meet with Malfoy. He had no idea what he was doing now, Ron and Hermione had failed to mention it or him in any way. Were they even passing acquaintances in this weird universe? How acceptable would it be for him to just show up at his house? Or apartment. Or wherever the hell he was living.

He wouldn’t still be at the Manor, would he? His house arrest wasn’t supposed to last seven years. Unless he did something to prolong it. Either way, his parents should probably still be there, and they most likely knew where Malfoy was.

Harry was suddenly struck with a crazy plan. He paced his room, mulling it over for a bit. Of course, he could just ask Ron and Hermione about Malfoy, but they probably wouldn’t like the idea of going out to meet him. Not that he was feeling especially keen on following any of their advice at the moment. To Harry, actually seeing Malfoy felt extremely important, and he was supposed to be looking at other people’s memories of him too, right?

This seemed to make the decision for him. He grabbed his wand from the bedside table and took a quick look at himself through the mirror. He tried to flatten down his hair, but gave up when the mirror eventually told him it was futile.

He cast a quick Tempus Charm before going down to the living room. He snorted.

It was five after midnight.

 

Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t exactly pleased to see Harry. Granted, he probably should have waited until morning at least, but it was an emergency. Sort of. He was just glad that Narcissa was the one to answer his Floo call and not Lucius. She seemed a bit easier to work with. He tried to speak quickly, both because Floo calls were extremely uncomfortable and, even though he had cast a muffliato around him, he wouldn’t put it past Hermione to check the Floo any second.

“Draco?” said Narcissa, looking suspicious. She was wearing a silky black nightgown that made her look even paler than usual, and her bone-white hair flowed down around her shoulders, stark against her clothes. “Is this related to a case of yours, Auror Potter?”

“Er, sort of,” said Harry, because he hadn’t actually thought of an excuse. “Not that he’s in any trouble,” he added quickly. “I would just like to speak with him.”

“Do you not have his records at the Ministry?”

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. Not that that really helped him, since Robards said he wasn’t allowed at work until he’d sorted all this out. But that’s what he was trying to do, wasn’t he?

“It’s sort of an emergency,” he said, trying to sound like he knew what he was doing. “I don’t have time to sort through records, especially since the Ministry is officially closed right now. I figured it would be faster to call you.”

Narcissa looked at Harry with a searching gaze, and he crossed all of his fingers.

“Very well,” she said coolly.

Harry resisted letting out a sigh of relief as he thoroughly memorized the address Narcissa gave him.

“Auror Potter,” she said, just as Harry began to leave.

He smiled politely. “Yes?”

“Will you let me know?” she said. “If anything happens to Draco?”

“Nothing will happen to him,” he said.

“But you’ll let me know if it does?”

Suddenly, Harry felt a bit guilty about asking her like this. He tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Harry hastily said his goodbyes, the worried look on Narcissa Malfoy’s face still tugging at his conscience. When he pulled out of the Floo, however, sudden excitement trumped any lingering feelings of guilt. His heart hammered with his new knowledge. This was it. He was going to meet the future Malfoy and learn everything about their…relationship. Merlin, that was weird.

Harry was about to walk right back into the fireplace and rattle out Malfoy’s address, when someone cleared their throat behind him.

Harry whirled around.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Hermione, her arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

Harry started to talk, but then he remembered the Muffliato he cast around him. He quickly removed it, but found he didn’t know what to say.

“I was just, uh…”

“Going to talk to Malfoy at half past midnight?” she said coolly.

He flinched. “Um, no?”

Hermione’s mouth twitched, and she sighed. “Well, you won’t be able to get to him like that. He lives in Muggle London and his fireplace isn’t connected to the Floo.”

Harry gaped at her. “How’d you know that?” he said.

“We work together,” she said.

Like it was that simple. Harry went on gaping at her. “You  _what?”_

“We work together at the Ministry,” she said, stepping closer to sit on one of the sofas. “We have been since I switched over to the Department of Mysteries three years ago. We’re not exactly the best of friends, considering everything that happened, but he’s not a bad colleague.”

Hermione motioned for him to sit down, and he did, still trying to process everything.

“So, he’s…all right, now?” he said.

“Not a giant prat, you mean?” said Hermione, smiling. “He can get a bit nasty sometimes. But on the whole, he’s good at what he does, and he can be quite funny.”

Harry stared. “Funny,” he said.

“Shocking, I know.”

“Does Ron know?”

Hermione chuckled. “Of course he knows. He’s not happy about it, but there’s not really anything he can do. Believe me, he’s tried.”

“Did I know?”

Hermione gave Harry a searching look. “Yes,” she said. “You knew.”

“And I was all right with it?”

“Not at first,” said Hermione. She shifted on the sofa, her wedding ring flashing in the firelight. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “But like I said, there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. It’s work. You got used to it eventually.”

“Eventually,” said Harry, grimacing.

Hermione looked at him. “Does it really bother you that much?” she said.

“Of course it bothers me,” said Harry. “Hermione, it’s Malfoy. Remember, the git you punched in third year?”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “I remember,” she said. “I also seem to remember you testifying for him at his trial.”

Harry scowled. “Yes, I did,” he said, as if admitting to something much more sinister. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with him being a git.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

Harry glanced at her. At the time, Ron and Hermione hadn’t completely understood why he'd wanted to testify for Draco Malfoy. Narcissa had save his life, so they got that, but Draco? He had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he’d nearly killed Ron and Katie, he’d watched Bellatrix torture Hermione, and in the end, he’d tried to turn Harry into Voldemort. Yes, he’d been underage for most of it, but so had Harry, Ron, and Hermione, when they were trying to save the world.

But Harry had seen sides to Malfoy that Ron and Hermione hadn’t. They hadn’t been there when Harry saw Malfoy crying in the bathroom, with no one but Moaning Myrtle by his side. They hadn’t seen his white, petrified face at the top of the Astronomy Tower, his wand hand shaking and eventually dropping, unable to perform the deed for which Dumbledore knew he was too innocent. They hadn’t witnessed that same petrified face when Voldemort forced him to torture people. They hadn’t looked straight into Malfoy’s eyes at the Manor, seeing the spark of recognition there before he announced dully that he couldn’t be sure.

But Harry knew. He knew Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater, the schoolyard bully, the scared, clever, and proud coward who was just human, too young, and Harry remembered countless nights spent struggling over what that all meant, what he was supposed to do. All he could do, at the time, was to make sure that the man he knew so well did not waste away in Azkaban.

Harry didn’t know how to explain all this to Hermione. Instead, he said, “I just want to see him, Hermione.”

Hermione gave him a look. “And tell him what?” she said. “That you’ve been obliviated? Do you really trust Draco not to take that to the press?”

“Do you?”

Hermione held his gaze for a second. Sighing, she looked away. “He wouldn’t,” she said. “Not because of any moral integrity,” she added with a bitter smile. “But because he’s a Malfoy. No one would believe him, and he knows that. It would just backfire on him horribly.”

“There you go then,” said Harry, perking up. “Completely safe.”

“But Harry, you don’t have to meet with him.” Hermione turned to face him, the firelight doing nothing to soften the determined look in her eyes. “We have memories of you and Draco you can look at.”

“But it wouldn’t be the same,” said Harry. “You can’t honestly say you were there for everything, can you?”

Hermione just stared at him for a second. Then suddenly, she snorted. “All right,” she said. “We weren’t there for _everything_ , but I figured you only wanted memories of the daylight hours.”

“Of the –?” Harry started, confused, and then something seemed to explode inside him. Blood boiled to his face, and he tried, and failed, to splutter out something halfway coherent. “That’s – you know that’s not –!”

Hermione’s mouth wobbled for a second, and then she started laughing, falling back in the sofa as she clutched her stomach. Harry pushed her, face burning.

“That’s not what I meant!” he said.

“What’s not what you meant?” said a familiar voice from behind them.

Harry looked over to see Ron shuffling over, wearing his pyjamas and bleary eyes.

“What the bloody hell are you two doing up at this hour?” he said.

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other. “Just chatting,” she said, still giggling.

Ron looked at her, eyebrow raised. “Right,” he said. He sat on Harry’s other side, rubbing his eyes. “And you definitely weren’t talking about Harry’s sex life with Malfoy because that would just be bloody _indecent_.”

Harry threw a cushion at Ron, and Hermione burst out laughing again. Ron knocked the cushion away from him, laughing too, until it bounced and landed directly in the fireplace. It burst into flames.

The three of them froze. They looked at each other. A split second later, they were jumping up to try and save the poor cushion, grabbing for their wands. After several minutes of shouting, cursing, and spells that jet-streamed freezing spouts of water all over the place (cushion ultimately forgotten), they sat in Harry’s newly soaked sitting room, shivering uncontrollably and laughing so hard it hurt.

For the rest of that night, they didn’t talk about anything more serious than clean clothes.

 

The castle was busy tonight. Ghosts, professors, prefects, Filch, Peeves, and other rule-breaking students; everyone was out this night, as they had been every other night. Harry had to be careful, more so than usual. It wasn’t very difficult for him, comparatively, what with his map and cloak. A number of those prefects and a few professors would probably give him a pass anyway, even if he did get caught. It was just irritating, even that leniency. Bitter against the back of his teeth.

He walked slowly down a corridor, ignoring the complaints he could hear coming from just behind a tapestry. Another unsuspecting pair caught by a prefect, it sounded like.

Harry understood, of course, the reason behind all this extra security. It was still the first week of school. Everyone was on-edge, ready for the precarious peace after the war to shatter at any given moment. Everyone was ready for bad news, a new death, an escaped Death Eater, maybe even a new Dark Lord rising from the ashes. Ever since Harry last left Hogwarts that exhausting, summer day, this uncertainty had been running as an undercurrent throughout all the celebrations. All the funerals and trials.

When the good news spread, that Hogwarts would be reopening just a year after the war, the wizarding world seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, everyone thought, things were going back to normal.

And it had, in a way. The Hogwarts Express, the trolley, the achingly familiar skyline, the Sorting Ceremony and start-of-term feast. Everything was as it had been.

And yet, the stares were different. Harry was used to the staring, of course. Good stares, bad stares. Mostly bad. But after the war, staring took on a whole new level of meaning. No matter where Harry went, avid eyeballs burned through him, their owners dropping whatever they were doing just to look at him, openmouthed, or rush towards him, openmouthed. People wanted to talk to him, thank him, ask for autographs, pictures, a piece of his hair, clothing, saliva, _anything_. They pushed gifts on him, pushed themselves on him, and more than once someone was sent to St. Mungo’s after trying to get to him. Twice, because he’d hexed them.

This madness was attention of a whole new world of embarrassment and irritation. Ron and Hermione had their share as well, much to their amazement and eventual annoyance. “Don’t know how you deal with it, mate,” Ron had said with a very put-upon sigh. He was still hovering somewhere between amazement and annoyance, which, Harry thought, was not likely to change anytime soon. Anyway, this was how he dealt with it. With his cloak and map, ghosting between hidden corridors and avoiding people at all costs.

And the anxiety was still there. It might’ve abated somewhat with Hogwarts finally being restored, but it didn’t fix everything. The Wizarding community was still edgy, still mourning, still picking up the pieces. Still celebrating, as well, but also waiting. Dumbledore once said that evil could never be completely eradicated, only kept at bay, and everyone seemed to agree. Harry just hoped that everyone was wrong on this count; that whatever it was they were waiting for, it would be good.

Harry dodged the Bloody Baron, not liking the way he stopped in the middle of the corridor, seeming to look straight at him. He spared a glance back at the chilling, silvery figure, which eventually started to move forward as if through some silent command. It was eerie, knowing now why he wore those chains. Why he was so bloody. Harry felt like an invader in the man’s – ghost’s – private suffering. Sometimes he felt like he should say something, maybe just to let him know that he knew, but the Bloody Baron never exactly invited conversation.

Shaking his head, Harry moved on.

Past a hidden doorway, past Peeves arguing with a furious Filch, past creaking armor, past whispering portraits, past two students hidden in an alcove and up the spiraling staircase.

Here, it was quiet, like it always was. It wasn’t struggling to catch up on subjects he hadn’t given a rat’s arse about for at least two years. It wasn’t listening to Hermione try to plan her – and his and Ron’s – futures with highlighted notes and lengthy arguments. It wasn’t trying to dodge insane students or lying awake in the middle of the night, scared to dream.

It was quiet. Empty quiet and his increasingly labored breathing, the grey staircases punctuated every several steps by white moonlight, streaming in through the windows. Even he thought it odd that this place, of all places, would end up being his place of calm. But maybe it wasn’t so odd. After all, he had never felt more at peace than in death, and the Astronomy Tower felt most connected, somehow, to that place with Dumbledore, at the end of all things.

Maybe that was morbid of him. Hermione, certainly, would be alarmed to hear that was why he’d been coming here the last few nights. But he wasn’t planning on letting her know, or anyone else for that matter.

Harry finally reached the top of the stairs. He reveled in the sharp burst of crisp, fresh air. And then he froze.

A familiar shock of blond hair, combined with an entirely unfamiliar set of silver-grey pyjamas. He almost shimmered in the flood of moonlight, angelic with a spark of danger, that spark coming from the way he stood on the very edge of a wide opening. A fallen angel, or the image of one who was just about to be.

Harry didn’t think.

“Accio Draco Malfoy!” he cried, his cloak slipping off.

Harry had a split second to take in Malfoy’s shocked face before he suddenly crashed into him. They tumbled down the spiraling staircase with yelps and curses, Harry desperately holding on as he tried not to bite his tongue off.

Several seconds and many bruises later, they slammed down onto a landing, the back of Harry’s head cracking on the stone, Malfoy possibly cracking his ribs. It took a few moments for Harry to register anything outside of pain and a ringing in his ears. After that, however, he dimly registered the fact that Malfoy was struggling against something. Then he realized that something was his vice-like grip.

Harry quickly let go. Malfoy immediately sprung up, and then yelped before crumpling back down to the floor.

“Fuck!” he said, holding his ankle. He shot a furious look at Harry. “What the bloody fuck did you do to me, Potter?!”

Harry felt a pang of guilt for Malfoy’s ankle. And then it passed. “Well, you were the one who was standing on the edge of the Astronomy Tower!” he said. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to exercise some common sense! I’m not a child, for Merlin’s sake, I can bloody well handle standing on the edge of the –” Malfoy broke off, paling. “No,” he said. “No. You thought –” Malfoy looked at Harry like he was insane, though he hadn’t said anything. He laughed, like he was the crazy one. Which Harry thought might not be far off the case.

“I wasn’t about to off myself, you stupid wanker! You really think after everything that I would – that I would _ever_ –“ Malfoy broke off. Grimacing, he shook his head, like an angry dog shaking off a fly. “Fuck you, Potter. Go take your overblown ego and pugnacious wand over to someplace where it’s actually wanted and leave me the bloody hell alone!”

Harry blinked, filled with an odd mix of relief and renewed irritation. “Pugnacious?” he said.

“On second thought, go find yourself a dictionary.” Malfoy looked away from Harry and poked at his ankle with a harsh breath. “Learning something useful for once won’t kill you. Not even the sodding Dark Lord could do that.”

Harry looked at Malfoy, sitting there in his fancy pyjamas and grimacing over his broken ankle. He felt an insane desire to laugh.

“Sorry that I, er, misunderstood,” said Harry, pushing down this sudden urge. “But I was only trying to help. How was I supposed to know you only wanted to, what, appreciate the view? What _were_ you doing, anyway?”

“It’s no business of yours what I was doing.”

“It is my business if it looks like you’re about to jump off the tower.”

“So you can be the first to break open a bottle of firewhiskey and dance over my corpse?” said Malfoy. He scoffed as he took out his wand, pointing it at his ankle.

“You should let Madame Pomfrey look at that –” said Harry quickly, deciding to ignore Malfoy’s comment for now, but Malfoy ignored him as well. He performed a wordless spell that repositioned his ankle with a sickening crunch. He breathed in sharply, his eyes fluttering shut as his face twisted with pain.

“Malfoy?” said Harry quietly.

“Fuck off, Potter,” said Malfoy, just as quietly.

“If you need to go to the hospital wing –”

“No. Just go away.”

“I can’t just –”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Malfoy, I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can!”

“I won’t!”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter!” Malfoy’s grey eyes shot back open and glared at Harry. “I don’t need your bloody help!”

Harry felt blood boiling in him with something close to nostalgia. He missed this, he thought with a rush. Being able to lose his temper like this, to be someone other than the Boy Who Lived (Again) or the Chosen One or the Saviour of the Wizarding World. He didn’t have to smile and just take it all as it came, he didn’t have to plan for the future and pretend the past didn’t haunt him every night. He could just be Harry again. And right now, being Harry felt kind of wonderful.

Pushing aside this sudden realization, he hurriedly responded to Malfoy. “So I’m to assume then,” he said, “that you actually want to sit here in pain with a half-mended ankle?”

“I can fix it!” Malfoy spat. “I just need some sodding peace and quiet, which you’re not exactly helping with. Also fuck you, you’re the bloody arsehole who broke it in the first place!”

“I didn’t mean to!” said Harry. “And I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?”

“Oh yes, now I feel right peachy, Potter, thank you,” Malfoy drawled. “Now will you kindly _fuck off_?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell, Malfoy, I’m trying to help you!”

“Did you miss the part when I said I didn’t bloody need it?”

“I’m serious,” said Harry, gritting his teeth. “You know how bad it could get if your healing spell goes wrong.” Harry certainly knew. It had been nearly seven years since second year, but he would never forget the pain of Skele-gro.

“You want to talk about dangerous spells?” said Malfoy. “There’s a reason why you don’t Accio people, or did Granger forget to tell you that bit when she held your hand through O.W.Ls? Bloody hell, Potter, I thought I was going to die!”

“It was an emergency,” said Harry, curling his hands into fists.

“Yes, of course, you did it to _save_ me, did you? Why don’t you come over here and let me thank you properly.”

“I wasn’t thinking, all right?” said Harry, sighing. “Now are you going to get a professional to look at your ankle or what?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am a professional.”

“Got your healing license then?” said Harry, exasperated. “Malfoy, stop being a prat and just go along with me for once.”

“No, I will not ‘go along with you’,” said Malfoy, as if Harry had suggested he strip naked and walk into the Forbidden Forest. “The rest of the world may worship the ground you walk on, but I’ll join our dear old headmaster before that ever happens, thanks.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “You’re a right git, you know that?” he said. Then he raised his wand. “Malfoy, come with me to the hospital wing or I’ll stun you and _make_ you come with me.”

Malfoy blanched, which Harry took in with a small feeling of satisfaction.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

“Watch me.”

“Potter,” said Malfoy, licking his lips. “I really can mend this. I’ve done it before, and I’ve dealt with far worse besides. It’ll only take a few minutes. If you can be patient for once in your sodding life, you can watch me do it, and then you can go off to do whatever the bloody hell you were doing before assaulting me. Alright?”

Harry felt like he would internally combust if he agreed to anything Malfoy said. On the other hand, he really didn’t want to drag him over to the hospital wing and try to explain this to Madam Pomfrey at four in the morning.

And then the absurdity of it all hit him. Here they were, Harry Potter and Draco bloody Malfoy, sitting on the stairwell of the Astronomy Tower in their nighties at four in the morning, arguing about the best way to heal the latter. Harry wished, for a moment, that he was wearing something other than his flannel pyjama bottoms and his washed-out Chudley Cannons t-shirt. And then he remembered that this was Malfoy, and he had bigger things to worry about than his poor wardrobe choice.

Honestly, if Malfoy screwed up his healing spell, the worst that’d happen was Harry would have to drag the git over to the hospital wing anyway. And in that case, Harry would get to say “I told you so” to Draco Malfoy, of all people. And if he was being honest with himself, he was just a bit curious to see if the prat could actually pull it off.

Not trusting himself to speak, Harry gave a quick nod of his head. Malfoy visibly relaxed.

“All right,” he said, softly. His gaze slid off Harry and back to his ankle, and this made Harry relax a little too. He tensed again when Malfoy lifted his wand, but it never went anywhere near Harry. Malfoy waved his wand in complex patterns, never making a sound, and it didn’t even take a full minute before Harry heard him sigh in relief, his wand back by his side.

Harry spared a glance at the ankle. It looked good as new.

“When did you become so good at healing spells, Malfoy?” said Harry, unable to help himself.

Malfoy stood up, brushing himself off as Harry scrambled up too.

“I’ve always been good at them,” he said.

Harry frowned. “No, you haven’t,” he said. “What about third year?”

“What about third year?” said Malfoy.

Harry crossed his arms, glaring. “That whole thing with Buckbeak! Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You were complaining about your bloody arm for weeks.”

Malfoy laughed, the moonlight from a nearby window just illuminating his bitter smile. “Oh, Potter,” he said. “Didn’t know you cared.”

Harry felt his blood boiling again. “What I _cared_ about was how your arse of a father tried to murder Buckbeak all because you were too stupid to pay attention in class!”

Malfoy’s already pale face completely drained of color. “Don’t you dare talk about my father, Potter,” he said.

“I’ll talk about him all I want, Malfoy,” said Harry. He stepped as close as he could on the narrow staircase. “He’s Death Eater scum, locked up in Azkaban with the rest of them for good this time because he bloody well deserves it.”

“Like me?” said Malfoy. He had backed up into the wall. It masked his face in shadows, but Harry could still hear his shallow breaths. “I was Death Eater scum too, in case you’ve forgotten. Is that what this is all about? Come to tell me you’ve changed your mind?” He scoffed, but Harry heard his breath hitch. “The Chosen One wants me in Azkaban after all?”

Harry took a step back, shocked. “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

Malfoy let out a small sigh, audible in the dead quiet. Harry felt it hit his face. He smelled like lemons.

“Fine,” said Malfoy, as if they’d just settled something.

Harry blinked. “Er, yeah.”

They stood like that for a few awkward moments. Harry cleared his throat. “So, uh, you’re really not going to the hospital wing?” he said.

“What?” Malfoy snapped.

Merlin, did he have to react like that every single time? Harry sighed. “Your ankle,” he said. “I know you healed it, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Madam Pomfrey take a look at it as well.”

Malfoy looked at him flatly. “It’s healed,” he said.

“I know,” said Harry. “But I’m saying it wouldn’t hurt –”

“It would hurt, actually,” Malfoy sneered. “I would go there, looking like I’d just been in a fight, claiming I had a broken ankle, which isn’t actually broken anymore, and no doubt you’d find a way to wriggle yourself into the situation, so then in no time at all, rumours would be flying that I’d gotten into a fight with the Saviour of the Wizarding World and then I’d get a letter from the Ministry informing me that I’d broken the conditions of my probation, and then next thing I know I’m being carted off to Azkaban.” Malfoy’s voice grew sharper and sharper, until suddenly he paused. He crossed his arms and continued again in a drawl.

“Not to mention the fact that I’d be pulling Madam Pomfrey away from other patients who actually have injuries, and Merlin forbid anyone has to suffer the consequences of their own stupidity even for a second. So no, Potter, I will not be going to the bloody hospital wing.”

“I –” Harry started. His mind was racing. Malfoy was on probation? What were its conditions? He shook his head. “Merlin, Malfoy, that would never happen.”

“Wouldn’t it?” said Malfoy darkly. “You’re the only reason I’m not in Azkaban right this second.”

Harry frowned. “No, I’m not,” he said. “I might have testified for you, but there were other factors. You were a child when it all happened, for one.”

Malfoy snorted, rolling his grey eyes. “You’re the bloody Saviour, Potter. You really think anyone would have voted against you for anything?”

“Some people would,” said Harry, but he could tell how weak that sounded even to his own ears. Malfoy snorted.

Harry sighed, sharply. “That doesn’t matter, does it? The point is, you don’t deserve to be in Azkaban. And you’re not.”

“What do you know about what I deserve, Potter?” said Malfoy, his eyes glinting in the dark. “You don’t know anything about me. About what I’ve done.”

“Weren’t you listening to me at your trial?” said Harry. He shifted, looking off to the side. “I know. Probably more than you ever expected me to know.”

“If you really knew you wouldn’t have been there at all.”

“Are we really going to do this?” said Harry, sighing. He looked back at Malfoy. “It’s four in the bloody morning.”

“You’re the one who barged in on me.” Malfoy stepped back into the moonlight. He was scowling. “Literally. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I.”

“Then leave me the fuck alone, already. No one’s making you stay.”

“I –” Harry started. He frowned. “Why do I have to leave? Why can’t you leave?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Really, Potter? Are you five?”

“I’m just saying you don’t own the place, Malfoy,” said Harry, scowling too. “You can’t tell me to leave just because you don’t want me here.”

“Same goes to you, Potty.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I just want some peace and quiet, Malfoy. Is that so much to ask?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“Malfoy,” Harry growled.

Malfoy crossed his arms, glaring. “I’m not going anywhere, Potter.”

They stared down for several seconds, neither one moving. Malfoy’s pointy face, set in grim, scowling lines, looked incredibly odd with his silky pyjamas. It made staying angry a little difficult.

Harry sighed.

“Fine,” he said, leaning back. Malfoy looked triumphant for a split second, until Harry sat down on the landing, his back against the wall. “Then I’m not going anywhere either.”

He looked up at Malfoy, trying not to look smug. Really, this was all ridiculous and Harry had no reason to feel smug. But the look on Malfoy’s face was priceless.

“What?” he said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Harry, smiling this time. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Malfoy seemed to war with himself for a second, but then his stubbornness won out. He sat down too, much to Harry’s dismay.

“I’m still not leaving,” said Malfoy, leaning against the opposite wall.

Harry glared. “Me neither.”

They lapsed into silence like that, sitting across from one another. This was completely ridiculous, Harry thought again, and he imagined for a second what Ron would say if he found out about all this. He snorted a little. This earned him a curious glance from Malfoy, which he ignored.

Ron would be horrified, sympathetic, and amused all at the same time. Trust Harry to get into a battle of wills with Draco bloody Malfoy in the dead of night. Or morning? Hermione would be disappointed in him, of course. He had testified for Malfoy in his trial, after all, but that didn’t mean he had to be friendly, did it? Anyway, he’d tried. He had saved his bloody life _again_ (even though it didn’t strictly need saving this time) and he’d offered to help Malfoy to the hospital wing. Malfoy was the one who had to act like a right git and take everything he did as a bloody insult.

Honestly, he was the reason they couldn’t get along. Not Harry.

Harry looked out the window, glad that he chose the side with the best view. He couldn’t see much at this angle, just the occasional bird and the twinkling night sky, but it was better than staring at stone walls.

Apparently, Malfoy didn’t like looking at the walls either. Instead, he was looking at Harry.

Harry tolerated this for several minutes until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“ _What_?” he said, looking at Malfoy. It was hard to see him in the shadows, which wasn’t fair, but Harry squinted as best he could.

Malfoy seemed startled. “What?” he said.

“What do you keep looking at me for?”

“Well, there’s not much else to look at, is there?” Malfoy snapped.

Harry struggled with this for a few seconds, but then he gave up. He gestured to Malfoy. “Come on this side then,” he said.

“I think not.” Harry didn’t have to see him to know he was sneering.

“Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “If you’d rather stare at me all night, then go right ahead.”

A beat fell between them. Then Malfoy got up, his face carefully blank. He stepped forward, kicked Harry in the leg, and then sat down next to him.

“Ow, you bloody prat!” said Harry, rubbing his shin furiously.

“Going to run and tattle on me then?” said Malfoy, looking out the window.

Harry glared at the back of Malfoy’s head. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than _no, he wasn’t_ , which was completely frustrating. So he kept glaring, as if his anger could burn holes through that mas of blond hair. He didn’t seem to notice. This frustrated Harry more, and he contemplated shoving Malfoy, hexing him, smacking him across the back of the head – that would get his attention – all the while glaring, staring, looking, and wondering.

His ear’s really pale, he thought suddenly. Pale and fragile-looking.

Kind of an odd color, really. All of Malfoy’s skin was odd, so much like the color of moonlight, and that was fitting, somehow. He was like a ghost, not the real ones, but the ones from Muggle stories, all eerie but full of wonder.

Harry looked at the hint of Malfoy’s silvery lashes, so thin they were almost translucent, and it was sort of amazing, being able to see this part of Malfoy he had never been close enough to notice before. He dropped his gaze to the corner of Malfoy’s mouth. He could barely see it at this angle, but it was the only spot of darkness on his face, just by a shade. It was almost magical, the way it drew the eyes just by being a slightly different color than the rest of him, and Harry felt, inexplicably, that if Malfoy just turned his head a little then it would stand out all the more –

– and then Malfoy did turn his head.

“Potter?” said Malfoy, his grey eyes puzzled.

Harry nearly flinched. “Er –” Right. They were talking about something. Harry glanced down at Malfoy’s mouth, not remembering.

He was right. They stood out from the git’s face like a siren.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you looking at, Potter?” he said.

Harry blinked. Twice. “Nothing,” he said.

Malfoy’s brows furrowed. They looked so delicate in the light. Harry blinked again, rapidly. He got the sudden urge to slap himself.

“You’re not actually thinking of telling on me, are you?” he said.

Harry seized on this. “Of course not,” he said, snorting. He looked away. “I told you I wasn’t leaving.”

“Right,” said Malfoy. He still sounded confused.

They fell silent again. Malfoy wasn’t looking at him anymore, which was a relief, but Harry was all too aware of their sudden proximity. It was weird. His odd, rambling thoughts aside, he and Malfoy, sitting side by side, not saying anything or even trying to kill each other was pretty much as weird as it got. They were just staring off at nothing, each lost in his own thoughts. Granted, it had been Harry’s idea, but it was still weird.

It struck him that now, Harry knew what Malfoy slept in. And vice versa. Of course, Malfoy’s nighties were posh as fuck, and that made him laugh a little. Malfoy sent him an irritated glance, as if he knew Harry was laughing at him. He didn’t break the silence though, neither of them did.

They just sat together, without saying a word, without fighting. Each of them casting the occasional warming spell.

When dawn started creeping in through the window, it was like some kind of silent signal. They looked at each other. Harry gave a little shrug, too tired to say anything. Malfoy nodded, looking relieved. They started down the staircase together, still not saying anything, and when they reached the bottom, Malfoy stalked off in the direction of the dungeons without a word or a glance towards Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes, yawning. He headed off in the opposite direction, hoping he could manage a quick nap before breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first drarry fic, and it's kind of an amalgamation of fics that hopefully make sense in the end. The rest of the chapters will most likely not be this long :P Still, hope you like it, and please let me know what you think!


	2. Of Fish and Pastries

Harry received his next letter from ‘Q’ that following Sunday:

_Starstruck,_

_Busy, are you?_

_\- Q_

He shrugged over his tea. “Not the worst present I’ve ever gotten,” he said.

“What’s your worst then?” said Ron as Harry handed the letter over to Hermione.

Harry pulled on a thoughtful expression. “The Dursleys gave me a coat hanger once,” he said.

Ron laughed. “Nah,” he said. “Remember that painting Dobby made for you? Doesn’t get much worse than that.”

Harry froze while buttering his toast, a shadow falling through him. Shock crossed Ron’s face.

“Don’t,” said Harry as Ron started to stutter out an apology.

After a moment, Hermione cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said. “From this letter, it seems safe to assume the last one was talking about a meeting.”

“How do you reckon?” said Harry, with some effort. He took a bite out of his toast.

“This person, Q, sent you a time with the last letter,” she said. “Now he or she is asking if you’re busy. Clearly, in a bit of a roundabout, prickly way, they want to know why you weren’t wherever you were supposed to be five minutes after midnight last Friday.”

“But then why send it now?” said Harry. “Why not ask me about it yesterday?”

Hermione looked back at the letter, frowning. “They might not have had a chance until now? Or maybe they were waiting for your answer first, but they got impatient.”

“Who’s so busy they haven’t got time to send three words over owl?” said Ron, glancing at Harry. “I reckon it’s the latter.”

“Well, if this Q is an informant related to Harry’s work, they’d be trying to attract as little attention as possible. You know how hard it could get to send a letter out if that’s the case.”

Harry leaned on the table, pushing his plate away from him. This mystery letter was growing more intriguing by the second, especially given the decided lack of excitement in his current day to day. And everything that haunted him in the night.

“But then he should’ve talked about a different meeting time,” he said. “Seems a bit stupid to only ask if I had other plans that night.”

“Yeah, and mind, you’ve had your fair share of stupid informants,” said Ron. “But definitely not for whatever fancy, secret mission Robards has got you on.”

“Who is he then?” said Hermione, looking skeptical. “Or she?”

Ron shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I dunno. Maybe she’s Harry’s secret lover, like he said.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hermione, sniffing. “Harry would have told us if he were seeing someone.”

“Probably,” said Harry. “Not like anyone can be as bad as Malfoy.”

Secretly though, Harry felt that if he’d been dating someone like Parkinson or Zacharias Smith, he would want to take that secret with him to the grave. He didn’t mention this out loud.

“But you did hide him from us for the better part of a year,” said Ron, frowning.

Harry blinked. This was pretty much on par with what he was thinking, but it still surprised him.

“I did?” he said.

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione cut across him.

“Yes, you did, and this ‘Q’ character really bothers me,” she said. “But I think we should put it aside for now.” She folded up the letter, then turned to Harry, smiling. “It’s your birthday, Harry! We should go out and do something.”

Harry frowned, eyeing Hermione with suspicion. “Like what?”

“Whatever you want,” said Hermione. “It’s your day, after all.”

“I want to talk to Malfoy.”

Hermione gave him a look. She got up and started to clear the table, shooing Kreacher away when he suddenly popped up out of nowhere. “I was thinking we could go to the Burrow,” she said. She started to do everyone’s dishes, even Ron’s. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that’d be fun,” said Ron. Harry hadn’t missed the look they’d exchanged when Hermione went to pick up his plate. Apparently, Ron was with Hermione on this one.

Harry picked at the fine cracks in the table, trying to look like he was at least considering the idea.

“Maybe,” he said.

Ron and Hermione perked up at this, looking at each other hopefully. It made him feel sour and guilty all at once.

“Just not today.”

Hermione wiped her hands on the dish towel. She leaned on the counter, sighing. “You’ll have to see them sometime, Harry,” she said. “They’re all worried sick about you.”

“I know,” said Harry. Like he could forget, with Hermione bringing it up every five minutes. “But I’d rather spend the day not being bombarded with questions, thanks.”

“We’ll tell them to tone it down,” said Hermione.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, let me know how that works out for you.”

“Is this about Ginny?” said Ron, peering at Harry. He was squinting like he could Legilimens his way into Harry’s mind. Maybe he could.

Harry stared resolutely at a spiral in the table that looked a bit like Dumbledore.

“It’s not about Ginny,” he said. “I just want to feel a bit more – I don’t know. Stable, I guess, when I meet them.” He looked up from the piercing gaze of table-Dumbledore to face the pitying looks from his friends. He tried not to scowl.

“Look, it’s my birthday, all right?” he said. “Let’s go somewhere just the three of us. A bit of fresh air will do everyone good.”

Ron and Hermione shared a worried glance, but they decided to let it go, for now. Harry almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“Then where do you wanna go, mate?” said Ron, relaxing with a smile.

Harry felt himself relaxing too, and suddenly, a trip out of the large, echoing house felt like a wonderful opportunity. He grinned.

“The aquarium,” he said.

Whatever they were expecting, it wasn’t that. Hermione crossed her arms, still looking worried. “The aquarium?” she said.

“Yeah,” said Harry, shrugging. “Why not?”

Harry had never actually been to one. Although he wasn’t sure where the nearest aquarium was to Grimmauld Place, Harry felt suddenly that this childish experience was one worth having. Maybe rapidly aging seven years (from his perspective) made him gravitate towards things that still felt childish and young.

So really, why not?

It turned out Ron and Hermione didn’t have any good answers either. So, a few hours and several Google searches later, the three of them found themselves at The Sea Life London Aquarium.

“Why’s it so expensive?” said Ron, looking at his ticket with distaste. “We’re just looking at a bunch of fish swim around.”

“I think it’s lovely,” said Hermione, smiling. “It’s been ages since I’ve last been.”

“Closest I’ve been is to the zoo,” said Harry. He stared at some nearby fish drifting in the glowing, blue water.

“You mean when you set that snake of on your cousin?” said Hermione, sounding amused.

Harry laughed; he’d almost forgotten. “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “And I bet he’s living a nice life down in Brazil right about now.”

“Still creepy, by the way,” said Ron.

Harry looked away from the fish long enough to nudge Ron. “You’ve spoken parseltongue too, remember,” he said.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it any less creepy, does it?”

“Oh come off it,” said Harry. “You probably know more parseltongue than I do now.”

Harry discovered shortly after defeating Voldemort that he’d lost the ability to speak the language of Slytherin’s heir. It was a bit disconcerting, even though, logically, he knew it had been disconcerting to just to use it, and he’d barely ever had to. Still, it was the principle of the matter. Just when he was getting used to the weird ability, it had been taken away from him. Story of his life, apparently.

Harry shook his head. He was here to have fun, he reminded himself, not to wallow in self-pity. He could do that at home.

They moved through dark blue tunnels and wide, open spaces filled with fish, turtles, seahorses, sharks, and even penguins. Harry couldn’t resist pointing and gawping at everything that moved, feeling a bit ridiculous but having fun all the same. His first time at an aquarium. He wanted it to count.

The only thing that slightly annoyed him was all the people. Excited children with tired parents, groups of teenagers posing for pictures, couples who grinned at every display, and everything in between. Harry almost felt like a fish himself, swimming in a school of humans. It could be worse, it was only a Sunday, after all, but still. He had spent the last week almost completely alone, except for Ron and Hermione. It was a bit of a shock.

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered a large room, dark, spacious, and relatively quiet, Harry couldn’t resist breathing a sigh of relief. They ambled over to the right side, where the wall had been replaced by an enormous tank, vibrant with sea life.

“Blimey,” Ron murmured as a shark passed right by them.

Harry smiled. He spotted a pair of fish chasing each other a little to their left. “Hey Ron –” he started, about to point it out. Then he froze.

At the other end of the room, not ten feet away, stood Draco Malfoy.

“What?” said Ron.

Harry gaped. Malfoy? Seriously? What the hell was he doing at the _aquarium_?

“Harry?”

As he watched, Malfoy turned to someone beside him, smiling at something Harry was too far away to hear. He laughed.

Beside him, Ron groaned. “Tell me that’s not who I think it is…”

“Why?” said Hermione, looking around Ron. “Who is it?” When she saw, her eyes widened, and she froze too.

Harry, however, began to thaw out. Feeling a grin spread slowly across his face, he turned around to look at Ron and Hermione, who looked back with grim expressions.

“Guess I’ll be getting my wish after all,” he said.

“Harry –”

“This isn’t a good idea, mate –“

Harry just turned back around and marched away, ignoring them both. If they wanted to be so bloody stubborn about this, so could Harry.

He walked, triumphantly angry, right over to Malfoy, and they didn’t follow. Only when he was standing an arm’s length away, close enough to see the man on Malfoy’s other side, did he realize he had no idea what to say.

Malfoy looked good. His pale hair and face was tinged with color from the chlorine-blue water, but this didn’t take away from just how handsome he had clearly grown to be. He was older, of course, and much healthier from the last time Harry had seen him. He wasn’t gaunt or crying, haunted or dying. He was just there, tall, slim, and practically glowing. He looked odd in muggle clothes, but they fit him well, emphasizing just how much better off he was now than all the way back then.

Harry didn’t know what to say.

Even without uttering a word, Malfoy noticed Harry almost immediately. The man he was talking to looked all-muggle, though he was probably pureblood on the inside. When Malfoy saw Harry, he broke off his conversation with him and looked at Harry with wide eyes.

“Harry?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Harry, voice harsh. He almost flinched. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say.

Malfoy’s grey eyes narrowed.

“I’m on a date,” he said. “Obviously.”

It _was_ obvious. But it still threw Harry for a loop and made it that much harder to articulate what he’d come over to say. What _had_ he come over to say?

Before he could come up with something, the man – Malfoy’s date – spoke. “Someone you know?” he said.

Malfoy glanced over at him and then back at Harry. He sighed. Stepping back, he gestured to Harry.

“Harry, Noah; Noah, Harry,” he drawled. “Harry’s a colleague from work and Noah’s the bartender I fucked last week.” He crossed his arms, looking at them both with eyebrows raised. “Happy?”

Nope. Whatever Harry was feeling, it was as far away from happy as it could get. Noah, from the looks of it, felt the same way.

“Draco!” he said, his red face visible even in the aquarium’s gloom.

Something in Malfoy’s face shifted. He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to Noah, almost flush at his side. “Hey,” he muttered, so softly Harry barely heard it. He leaned into Noah’s ear and whispered something while smiling. Noah blushed, if possible, harder.

Harry almost felt like blushing himself. He watched Noah whisper something back, making Malfoy laugh, and when Noah reached for Malfoy’s hand, Malfoy provided it. Harry felt like he was going to be sick.

“Can we talk?” he blurted out – to stop this blatant show of affection if nothing else. Malfoy looked back at him, his silver-grey eyes challenging. “In private?”

The glow of the water lit Malfoy’s face with soft, dark lines, layering it with shadows and light, aquamarine. He was still pointy, a bit ferrety, but there was a mystery there Harry couldn’t quite understand. He wondered if he hadn’t lost his memories, he’d be able to.

“It’s the weekend, Potter,” said Malfoy, in his usual jeer. “Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow.”

Harry took in a sharp breath. He glanced quickly at Noah, watching for any reaction, but to his surprise, there was none. Harry had thought the man had simply failed to recognize him in the dark, but no. His first impression had been right. Noah was a muggle.

Harry looked back at Malfoy, his mind racing. This man, he looked so much like the Draco Malfoy he had known, the one he’d grown up with, in a way. But now, more than ever, Harry felt completely like a fish out of water – pun intended. He didn’t know Malfoy, not at all. Not who he was, what he liked, if he still ate custard tarts for dessert or loved the color green. For all he knew, Malfoy could own a hippogriff named Buckbeak in honor of the one he’d tried to get murdered and pampered it every single day.

…

Or not.

Still, Harry felt completely winded by this new version of Malfoy. Stupid, cock-sure bullies, he could handle, but this? He had no idea how to deal with this.

 “Seriously, Malfoy,” said Harry, feeling suddenly desperate. “I need to talk to you.”

When Malfoy didn’t say anything, Harry broke. He gritted his teeth.

“Draco,” he said. “Please.”

Harry still couldn’t understand the blank look on Malfoy’s face, but he thought he saw something flicker in those grey eyes.

Then they hardened. “Can’t you take a hint?” he said. “Or has whatever you’ve been up to this past week made you even thicker than usual? I’m on a date, Potter. Kindly fuck off before I make you.”

Anger twinged at the base of his spine, and Harry opened his mouth to retort with obscenities, maybe a hex, until something stopped him short. He stared.

“This past week?” he said. “What –?”

“Let’s go, Noah,” said Malfoy, turning away from Harry. A thrill of alarm went through Harry, and he reached out, grabbing Malfoy with Seeker-quick reflexes.

“Wait!” he said, but Malfoy was already twisting out of his grip. Slapping Harry’s hand away, Malfoy stepped close to face him with dark, furious eyes.

“Fuck you,” he said. “Just _fuck you_ , Harry.”

Whipping back around, Malfoy stormed off, seeming to forget about Noah as he struggled to keep up. Harry just stared, not reacting even when Ron and Hermione showed up by his side.

Ron patted his back awkwardly. “Tough luck, mate,” he said.

Harry said nothing.

 

The next time Harry saw Malfoy, they were sitting down for their shared class in Muggle Studies. Everyone was required to take it before they graduated, and that meant every Eighth Year student was enrolled. A few people complained about it, but none of them Slytherins. With the climate being what it was after the war, no Slytherin dared to so much as speak up in class.

The Sorting had been especially ugly. No one, it sounded like, had wanted to be in Slytherin. Unlike Harry’s case, however, the Sorting Hat wasn’t having any of that this year. It Sorted the first years wherever it thought they fit best, except for one girl, who had a very loud and what sounded like a very heated debate with the Hat about why she wasn’t fit for Slytherin. In the end, the Hat gave up and placed her in Gryffindor. She had been aiming for Ravenclaw, but maybe the Hat was feeling just a bit spiteful.

Could the Hat be spiteful? Harry didn’t know. All he knew was that Malfoy didn’t show up for breakfast the morning they awkwardly parted ways. It was one of the rare days Harry joined everyone up at the Great Hall. Normally, he would catch a bite to eat down at the kitchens, where he could avoid the rest of the school. Ron and Hermione joined him most days, though he could tell that they preferred the Great Hall.

When Harry suggested casually that they try to eat with everyone else that morning, the both of them accepted a bit too eagerly. Harry felt a little bad then, for dragging them into his rapidly developing hermit lifestyle, and he resolved to get out of the kitchens more.

He didn’t tell them his sudden desire to eat breakfast in the Great Hall was partly motivated by his sudden desire to see Draco Malfoy. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t really sudden, and it wasn’t really a desire. More like a passing curiosity.

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t really make sense without Harry telling them about what happened the night before, but he couldn’t find a good way to work it into the conversation. He couldn’t just burst out and say, “Oh, by the way, I spent the night up on the Astronomy Tower with Malfoy.”

And Harry couldn’t really work out to himself why that meant he had to see Malfoy at breakfast today. He told himself he was curious, and that was natural. Anyone would be curious after a meeting like that. But this didn’t sound like something Ron or Hermione would swallow, so he didn’t bring it up. He well remembered their exasperation with him in sixth year, and he didn’t want them to think he was becoming obsessed again. After all, there was nothing to get obsessed about, not this time.

Still, Harry felt a familiar twinge of anxiety when he scanned the Great Hall that morning and didn’t see Malfoy. He was almost tempted to take out the Map and look for Malfoy’s dot, but there was no way Ron and Hermione wouldn’t notice that.

They had Transfiguration first thing in the morning, a class they shared with the Slytherin Eighth Years. Gryffindors shared a lot of classes with Slytherins, this year. It was a part of the greater campaign for inter-House unity, that and the increased number of school-wide activities, Unity events, and various other small changes aimed to bring the school closer together as a whole.

The result being, Harry saw Malfoy on a much more regular basis than in previous years. Before, he hadn’t really cared. Now, Harry waited with increasing agitation in his seat. Ten minutes into class, however, Malfoy still hadn’t shown up.

Ron noticed as well. “Looks like the ferret’s skiving off class,” he muttered, glancing at Malfoy’s desk. “The git.”

Harry made a noncommittal grunt, not meeting Hermione’s eyes.

When he finally saw Malfoy in Muggle Studies, he felt strangely triumphant. This faded, however, as the lesson wore on. Malfoy didn’t even look at him, not once. Not that he ever did really, but Harry felt like he should at least acknowledge, somehow, that they had successfully spent several hours near each other without injury. Well, without another one.

At the end of class, he was considering just walking up to him and saying something himself when Hermione tapped him on the arm, looking worried. “Harry!” she said.

He wrenched his gaze from Malfoy, who was still packing his bags. “What?” he said.

“I was saying, do you want to go to the Great Hall for lunch?” she said. She paused, looking at him with a searching gaze. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, reaching for his own bag. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure, Harry? Because –”

“So, kitchen or Great Hall?” said Ron, leaning on the table. “I’m fine with either.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, turning towards Ron. Harry shot him a grateful look.

“Of course you are,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“As long as they have a nice, full platter for you, anyplace is fine, isn’t it, Ronald?”

Ron made a face. “Are you still on about that? Look it was just one date, I said I’d make it up to you –”

Hermione shot back a retort, and they continued bickering all the way down to the Great Hall, where Harry oriented them with increasing excitement.

He was going to see Malfoy, he thought. He was going to see Malfoy, and he was going to…what? Make him talk? Harry snorted, but this went unnoticed as they reached the Great Hall. Ron pointedly started to shovel food into his mouth, making Hermione more irritated, until he tried to kiss her, his cheeks puffed up with food, and then choked a little in the process. She dissolved into laughter.

Harry was busy scanning the Slytherin table. Malfoy wasn’t there. Seamus sat down to talk with them, railing about the new Transfigurations professor, and Harry tried his best to pitch into the conversation, struggling not to look as jumpy as he felt.

That night, Harry went up to the Astronomy Tower. He had slept even less than usual, punctured by intermittent irritation at the fact that Malfoy had completely ignored him that day and he wasn’t in the Great Hall for dinner either. The git.

Harry knew he shouldn’t let Malfoy bother him like this, especially since Malfoy wasn’t really _doing_ anything, but that just irritated him more. So what if Malfoy bothered him? Harry was allowed to be bothered, wasn’t he? He had that right, same as everyone else.

In the end, Harry started for the Tower earlier than he normally would. The castle was even more crowded at this time of night, and Harry had to be careful not to get distracted, especially since he’d left his Cloak up on the Tower the night before. Still, he did risk a trip down to the kitchens for a quick bite to eat. He even brought a few pastries and a sandwich or two in case he got hungry later.

When he reached the top of the Tower, no one was there. Not that Harry expected anyone to be. He just sat down on the edge of the large opening Malfoy had been standing on just the night before. He set down his bag of food and looked out at the sprawling grounds. He let out a breath, feeling suddenly very tired.

He took out a pastry and glared at it. It was a slice of custard tart, kept cool in a large napkin with a Temperature Charm. He didn’t even like them that much.

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he muttered, biting into it.

“You don’t own this place, Potter.”

Harry choked on the tart. Coughing, he whirled around to see Malfoy standing by the staircase.

He was scowling. “Cover your mouth, Potter. Honestly, it’s like you were raised by wolves.”

 _Close enough_ , Harry thought, matching Malfoy’s scowl. “What do you want, Malfoy?” he said.

“I don’t _want_ anything,” said Malfoy, stepping closer. He was in his pyjamas again, and Harry found he preferred that to Malfoy’s posh, school robes. Well, those nighties were posh too, but in a much better, softer way.

“So you were just looking to hang out for another couple hours then?” said Harry, rolling his eyes.

Malfoy sneered. “Not with you.”

“Do you see anyone else?”

Malfoy leaned against the wall, right by the edge of the opening. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said.

Harry looked at his tart, suddenly feeling awkward. “Are you meeting someone then?”

“At three in the morning?” Malfoy snorted. “There are only two people insane enough to be awake at this hour, Potter, and they’re already here.”

That wasn’t strictly true, Harry thought, but of course, Malfoy couldn’t see exactly how untrue that was the way Harry could.

“Fair point,” said Harry, shrugging. 

Malfoy looked at him suspiciously. “Are _you_ meeting with someone?” he said.

“No.”

Malfoy looked down at Harry’s bag. “Then what’s that?” he said. He looked back at Harry. “I swear, if the Weaslette comes up those stairs – or, she’s not already here, is she? Under that bloody cloak?”

He looked around the Tower, as if he could suddenly see invisible people. Harry tried to stay seated and not do anything rash. Like attack Malfoy.

“You mean Ginny?” he said, through gritted teeth. “No, she’s not here. Why would she be? We broke up months ago.”

Malfoy looked at Harry, his expression not annoyed anymore or even smirking. He looked confused.

“What?” he said.

Harry blinked, feeling confused too. “You don’t know?”

“No,” he said, looking annoyed again. “Why should I know anything about your stupid love life?”

“Just – it was all over the papers, I guess,” said Harry, wishing now that he hadn’t mentioned it at all. “Not that I read any of them, but…”

“I have better things to occupy myself with than reading _Witch Weekly_ cover to cover like your brain-dead horde of fans, Potter.”

From what Harry heard, it wouldn’t have even taken that much. It had pretty much been front-page news, the fact that Harry Potter’s ‘Chosen One’ (they had all gotten sick a little over that, especially Harry and Ginny) had left him for the other great war hero, Neville Longbottom. Ginny’s hate-mail had apparently been a thing to behold, and, a little more than spiteful himself at the time, Harry did nothing to discourage them.

Anyway, he had been a little busy dealing with a different kind of crisis at the time, one which, thankfully, no one besides Ron and Hermione knew about.

But if Malfoy didn’t already know about all that, Harry certainly wasn’t going to tell him.

“Right,” he said. “Well, rest assured, that definitely happened, so don’t worry about anyone else coming up here tonight.”

“I’m already worried enough about you being here,” Malfoy drawled. “Why _are_ you here, Potter? It’s a fairly large castle, I’m sure you can find somewhere else to brood or stuff yourself, whatever it is you were planning on doing.”

“Same goes to you, Malfoy,” said Harry. He paused, then went ahead and took another bite of his tart. Malfoy looked pained at this. Harry tried not to smirk. Swallowing, he added, “Anyway, I was here first.”

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “You did not just say that.”

“It’s a valid point, Malfoy.”

“Yes, it would be. If we were four.”

“Just sit down and take a bloody pastry, Malfoy,” said Harry, finishing off his tart. “It won’t kill you to be civil for once. You proved that the other night.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Malfoy sneered. “You only _nearly_ killed me.”

Still, after a moment’s hesitation and an audible grumble from his stomach, he sat down on the other side of Harry’s bag. He threw Harry a look of deep suspicion before gingerly opening it and peering inside.

Harry looked straight ahead, struggling to fight down his smile as Malfoy unwrapped one of the custard tarts, biting into it.

The rest of that night passed much like the previous one. They polished off all the food Harry brought, Malfoy looking at him with a curious kind of suspicion when he saw all of the contents. He didn’t comment, however, and just ate everything like Harry knew he would. This time, Malfoy didn’t stay until dawn, but left an hour or so earlier with a small sigh.

“Night, Malfoy,” Harry called out, not looking away from the grounds.

There was a beat of silence. And then: “Goodnight, Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to post this chapter a bit later, but today's Valentine's Day, so I couldn't resist. Happy Valentine's Day!


	3. Bitter and Sweet

Harry was sitting out on the lawn, facing a small pond in the Burrow’s garden. Skinny, skeleton fish swam just beneath the surface of the still water. From a nearby flutterby bush, garden gnomes popped in and out, swaying with the leaves, drunk on summer air. It was warm, or maybe it just looked like warmth. The sun beat down on everything. Harry’s hands were splayed out on the grass, as if soaking it all up. Tugging warmth out of the dirt, the air, the cloudless sky. Leaving nothing behind.

“I’m sorry,” said Ginny, from beside him. She sat facing him, her long legs crossed. Her hands were clutched in her lap.

“Harry,” she said, after a pause. “Say something. Please.”

Harry played with a piece of grass, tying it into knots.

“I don’t know what to say, Ginny.” He pulled the knot tighter.

“I don’t know either.” Ginny leaned forward, eyes bright. “Just…say it’s all right.” She looked at him. “Harry, say we’re all right.”

Harry laughed without humor. The green blade ripped in his hands. “All right?” he said. He looked over at Ginny, his face twisting. “You’re joking, right?”

Ginny’s hands pressed harder against each other, the fingers turning white. “Okay, that was stupid,” she said. “But I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Harry. I didn’t want it to end up this way.”

“Then you should have just _told_ me!” Harry threw the pieces of grass away from him. They floated down gently, nearly still in the summer heat. He scowled.

“I’m telling you now.”

“And you think that makes it all right?” said Harry. He turned, finally facing her. “It’s been months since we got back together, Ginny. _Months_. In all that time, it never crossed your mind that I might like to know you’re in love with one of my best mates?”

“I didn’t know!” said Ginny. When Harry scoffed, she straightened her back, her warm, hazel eyes fierce.

“I was confused,” she said. “For the longest time. Harry, you’ve no idea; I thought I was going mad! I’ve only ever wanted you, or I thought I did. But seventh year, going through all of that with Neville, it – it’s different. I realized I’ve never felt that way towards you –”

Harry shook his head, screwing his eyes shut. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“But you need to,” said Ginny. “You need to know that I’m not doing this lightly. None of it, not when I got with you or the bit when I realized we just weren’t meant to be.”

“And you just get to decide that?” said Harry. He opened his eyes, glaring. “All on your own?”

“I didn’t just ‘decide’,” said Ginny. “It’s just the way things are.”

“What _things_?”

Ginny sighed. “I don’t know,” she said.

Harry laughed drily, running a hand through his hair. Carefully, Ginny reached out and took one of his hands. She squeezed it with warm, slightly calloused fingers.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft, almost part of the scenery. “Look at me.”

Harry looked at her. He looked at the beauty in her eyes, nose, mouth, hair, even in the way she just sat there, and the effect of it all hit him clearly, like fine cracks on thin ice.

“I love you,” he said.

Ginny bit her lip, tears running down from her eyes. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

“I know,” she said. “I love you too, Harry.”

“If you did, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Ginny’s lips trembled. Taking a deep breath, she threw her head back, and she looked straight at Harry. “I know what I did,” she said. “And I’m sorry, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You know that.”

“Do I?”

“You do,” she said fiercely. “Harry, I care about you. I always have, but I can’t go on like this anymore. I can’t love you like I should, like everyone wants me to, like I wanted me to – it’s just not right. You feel it too, don’t you?”

Harry turned his face away. His eyes were screwed up, as if facing a too-bright sun. There were a few moments of silence. Ginny let go of his hands to sniff and wipe the tears off her face.

“I thought about you,” he said suddenly. “When we were on the run. I’d take out the Map sometimes, when Ron and Hermione were sleeping, and I’d just look at your dot there.” He looked at her now, the way she was smiling. The way she was crying. “I thought of you,” he said. “Every day.”

 “I tried, Harry,” she said. “I wanted to be with you, but it just gets harder every day.”

“So you’re going to quit?” said Harry. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I’m doing what I know is right.”

“You’re being selfish.”

Ginny shook her head. “Maybe,” she said. “I honestly don’t know what to think anymore.”

They sat there for a few more moments, neither one looking at the other. Harry watched a pale, blue fish as it darted after a smaller, green one. Ginny looked at the swaying grass. Nearby, a wandering gnome crept closer and closer, intrigued, perhaps, by the scene. When it was close enough to touch, Harry sighed, moving a hand through his hair. He got up, and, startled, the gnome ran away.

Ginny followed after Harry, close, but not too close. Not anymore. “Harry?” she said.

Harry put his hands in his jean pockets, looking off to the side. “Fine,” he said.

“What?”

He glanced at her. “It’s fine, all right? Go off and be with Neville, or Dean or Michael Corner or even Seamus if you want.” He took a step back, his face pained. “I don’t care anymore.”

The look on Ginny’s face at this, it looked as if he was betraying her, not the other way around. Harry screwed his eyes shut.

“Go.”

Ginny breathed in sharply. She closed her eyes. Opening them, she faced Harry with a look of determination, touched only by sadness.

“There’s nothing I can say to fix this, is there?” she said.

Harry looked at her.

“Just go,” he said, voice cracking.

She lingered for a split second longer, her hand reaching forward as if to comfort him. Harry took another step backwards, looking away.

Hurt flashed across her face. Slowly, it hardened into resignation. She closed her hand into a fist – catching an invisible snitch – and she walked away.

The memory shifted.

It was Christmas. Despite the cold weather outside, dinner was taking place under the bright, clear stars, lit with streams of red, green, and gold holiday bulbs. Outside the sphere of the creaking dining table, grass was white with frost, crunching under occasional feet. Inside, however, people were eating, warm, happy.

Well, as much as Harry could be happy. On the other end of the table from him, Ginny sat with Neville, talking animatedly about her recruitment into the Holyhead Harpies, looking at Neville every now and then with bright, fond smiles that he returned in kind.

Harry had never seen either of them look quite like that.

On his end, there was Ron, Hermione, Luna, Hagrid, and George. Ron was trying to keep up a conversation about the next Quidditch World Cup with Luna, even though she kept interjecting with random tidbits that at best made him laugh, at worst, highly affronted him. Hermione was listening with a painful look on her face as Hagrid updated her on his latest experiments with the remaining Blast-Ended Skrewts, and George was sitting quietly, playing with his food.

So was Harry, though he kept on sneaking looks down at the other end of the table.

The memory shifted again, and the two of them were standing in the kitchen at the Burrow, wearing the same clothes, closer but still so far apart that same Christmas night.

Ginny closed the door behind her. The noise of festivities dropped to muffled laughter. Harry looked around from the cupboards, and the ready smile on his face dropped to something less kind.

Ginny smiled tentatively. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” said Harry. He turned back around. He reached up to get the old, chipped mug that no one ever liked to use except him. Closing the cupboard, he turned to leave, but Ginny hadn’t moved from the door.

“Did you need something?” he said.

Ginny crossed her arms. “I thought we could talk.”

Harry blinked. “What?” he said. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“Well, I promised Ron a round of chess, so maybe later.” Harry made as if to side-step her, but she matched him, eyebrow raised.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a horrible liar?” she said.

Harry stepped back. He seemed to consider his options for a second. With a sharp sigh, he placed the mug down on the counter.

“You might have mentioned it once or twice,” he said.

“Then you should’ve cottoned on by now, don’t you think?”

They glanced at each other, almost smiling. Harry looked away first.

“Ginny, I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“Oh, do you now?” Ginny said, with that same almost smile.

Harry played with the handle of his chipped mug. “Yeah,” he said. “But you don’t have to mind me, all right? You’re with Neville now. And I’ve got some stuff of my own to deal with, so…yeah. We don’t need to do this.”

“We do if you keep avoiding me like this.” Harry scowled. Ginny shook her head, grimacing. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Harry. Hard not to when we live in the same place.”

Harry ran a thumb over the mug’s blue rim, right where the color was faded from too much use. His grip on the handle was white.

“I’d just rather not think about it,” he said. “Is that so much to ask?”

Ginny uncrossed her arms, sighing as she took a step forward. “I understand,” she said. “But I miss you, Harry. Neville misses you too –”

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Sorry if I find that a bit hard to believe, considering.”

“You think I’d lie to you about this?”

“Why not?” said Harry. “You’ve lied to me before.”

Ginny stepped closer, slamming her hand on the counter. “I’ve never lied to you!”

“Right,” said Harry. He actually laughed a little, which was a big mistake considering the look on Ginny’s face.

“I never lied,” she said, her almond eyes flashing.

Harry stared at Ginny, his half-laugh souring into a small, irritated look. “You can’t be serious,” he said. He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “Ginny, you fancied Neville the whole time we were together.”

“That’s – I didn’t do it on purpose –”

“Yeah, well. It still hurt.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Someone burst out laughing outside. Neither one was willing to look at the other; Harry playing with his mug again, Ginny toying with her hair. It was in a braid, a long trail over her shoulder. Hermione must have done it for her.

Harry shifted, stepping away from the counter.

“Well, if that’s all…”

He made as if to pass Ginny, but she grabbed his arm, stopping him. She looked at him, standing tall, her grip strong.

“You’re one of my best friends, Harry,” she said. “Please just – don’t forget that, all right?”

Harry looked at her, pained, maybe, or just angry. Maybe feeling nothing at all.

“…All right.”

The image blurred, the distant sounds of festivities and grumbling gnomes bleeding out into a new scene that took a bit longer than usual to take shape.

When it did, Harry reveled in its familiarity. They were in his old dormitory, and it looked just as he remembered. Five four-poster beds filled the curved room, all but his and Neville’s rumpled and covered with clothes, newspapers, and magazines. Random textbooks and quills littered the floor, and Ron’s wardrobe stood ajar, forgotten. Someone had left the window slightly open, so pages, blankets, and other detritus shuddered every now and then with an autumn breeze. Neville’s toad sat snoozing on his pillow.

It looked to be about mid-afternoon by the light shining through, and except for Trevor, he and Ginny were alone.

“No one’s going to interrupt us here,” said Harry. He was leaning against his bedpost, arms crossed but not as guarded as he had been a year ago. “So? What’s this all about then?”

Ginny was sitting on Neville’s bed, playing with the frayed ends of his old quilt. She looked at Harry.

“What’s going on between you and Malfoy?” she said.

Whatever Harry had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. He uncrossed his arms but was speechless for a few seconds. He opened his mouth.

He closed it. Opened it again.

“What do you mean?” he said.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “I saw you with him,” she said. “At the quidditch pitch the other night. Don’t try to deny it.”

“What were you doing down at the pitch so late?”

“That’s what I’m asking you!” Ginny pushed off from the bed. She stepped closer to Harry. “What the bloody hell are you doing, hanging around with Malfoy in the middle of the night? Have you gone mad?”

Harry turned his face away, glaring at a spot of sunlight. “We were just practicing a bit of flying,” he said.

“A bit of _what_?”

“You know, flying, I’m sure you’ve heard of it, seeing as how you play for the Harpies and all –”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about!” Ginny pushed Harry’s shoulder, making him face her. “Why’re you flying with Draco Malfoy? In the dead of night, no less! Are you looking to get yourself killed?”

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” said Harry.

“Well, it doesn’t bloody sound like it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I can handle Malfoy, Ginny.”

“Why are you bothering with him at all?”

“It just sort of happened,” Harry said, sighing. “Is this all you wanted to talk about?”

Ginny scoffed. “You think I’m going to let you get away with just that? You haven’t answered my question yet, Harry, not really.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “I don’t see what the big deal is here,” he said, frowning. “I know Malfoy’s a prat, and yeah, we get into a few scraps sometimes, but it’s not like we’re at each other’s throats like before –”

Harry looked over at Ginny, and he froze. She was staring at him with wide eyes.

“Hang on,” she said. “Does that – you mean that wasn’t a one-time thing? You’re actually meeting up with him? With _Malfoy_?”

“Er…”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, not looking at Ginny. Ginny crossed her arms, glaring with a look that strongly reminded him of her mother.

“Harry,” she said. “You better tell me what the bloody hell you’ve been up to, or I’m taking you straight to the hospital wing.”

Harry started. “The hospital wing? What for?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Obviously, you’ve either been Confunded or hit over the head with a blunt object, probably a bludger since you’ve been sneaking off to play quidditch with Malfoy of all people –”

Harry laughed, though he looked like he could punch something as well. “So you think I’m touched in the head, then?” he said.

“What other explanation is there?”

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve just – gotten a bit friendly recently, all right?” he said. At Ginny’s less-than-convinced look, he went on with another sigh. “Look, I know how it sounds. And I’m not saying it entirely makes sense to me either, but we got to talking near the start of term, and he – I don’t know. He was – nice to talk to, I guess. I mean, not really, we don’t really talk that much actually – bugger, I don’t know how to explain it, but we’re just – friendlier now. Sort of. Does that make sense?”

Ginny stared like Harry had grown a second head. Or had become a completely different person altogether.

“Not at all,” she said. “Did you say this has been going on since the start of term?”

Harry winced. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Do Ron and Hermione know about this?”

“Er, no. No one knows, actually.”

“Except me.”

Harry looked at her. “Right.”

Ginny looked as if she wanted to bolt out right then and there to tell everyone. Apparently sensing this, Harry reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Ginny,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. Really. Malfoy and I – we’re honestly just hanging out, and it’s been nice, all right? I don’t want to spook him or –”

Ginny backed off violently, making Harry let go. “Is that what you’re worried about?” she said. “You don’t want anyone to know because you’re afraid it’ll scare off your precious Ferret?”

Harry blinked. “That’s…a part of it,” he said. He swallowed visibly, pushing down anger, embarrassment, or both. “Most of it is I don’t want to deal with people knowing. Can you just imagine what Ron would say? Can you imagine what everyone would say, if it got out that we were actually being civil towards each other?”

“Since when do you care what other people think?”

“I care about what other people do.” Harry leaned against his bedpost again, crossing his arms. “Remember when we broke up? The _Prophet_ was hounding us for weeks. That mad witch even tried to ambush you, not to mention all the nasty letters you got.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I didn’t send you those letters –”

“Yes, but don’t pretend you didn’t get a kick out of it.”

Harry grinned sheepishly. “Well, a bit,” he said. “At the time. Anyway, you know what I mean.”

“It’s not like you’re dating Malfoy.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, sighing. “That’s not the point, is it? I’m just sick and tired of people prying into my private life.”

“I’m not ‘people’, Harry,” Ginny said. “And neither are Ron and Hermione. We have a right to know if you’re meeting up with a death eater in the middle of the night –”

“Ex-death eater.”

Ginny glared. “This again? Harry, he got Dumbledore killed, and he very nearly killed Ron and Katie!” She threw her hands up, looking at Harry with a zeal he remembered all too well.

“Ginny, we’ve been over this,” said Harry. “The Ministry made its decision –“

“Well, they made the wrong one, then.” Ginny stepped close, her old anger rekindling. “I just don’t understand, Harry! Why do you keep on taking his side? You know what he is better than anyone – he tried to Crucio you, for Merlin’s sake!”

“And I almost killed him! Does that mean I should get carted off to Azkaban too?”

“That was self-defense –”

Harry shook his head with a sharp sigh. “Look, I’m not arguing about this again,” he said. “It’s over and done with, all right? It has been for over a year now.”

Ginny looked as if she had plenty more to say, but she didn’t go on. Instead, she said, “You’re wrong about him, Harry. I don’t know what he’s done to make you think different, but Malfoy is bad news. Stay away from him. I mean it.”

Silence lingered between them for one heartbeat, two. A light breeze ruffled the pages of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , which lay open to the first chapter on Harry’s bed. Trees groaned somewhere in the distance, and a lost bird chirped somewhere close.

Ginny and Harry were close enough to kiss.

Neville’s toad suddenly croaked awake, and Ginny blinked. She backed off. Sighing, she turned around to leave, but at the doorway she looked back.

“Be careful, Harry,” she said. “Please.”

Harry stared after her as she left, the look on his face defiant.

The scene blurred, and Harry readied himself for a new memory. Suddenly, however, his stomach flipped, and his feet lifted from what had felt like solid ground. His body did a slow backwards somersault out of shifting colors, and in the blink of an eye, he was back in Grimmauld Place, sat in a chair that creaked every time he moved.

Ginny smiled across from him. Unlike when she was eighteen, twenty-four-year-old Ginny sported short hair that just reached her shoulders, and she looked at Harry with kind, almond-brown eyes that had long-since lost the fury of an argument seven years past.

Unlike Ron and Hermione, she didn’t wear a wedding ring.

“Not quite what you expected, was it?” she said.

Harry, feeling so young for the first time in weeks, laughed weakly. He took a sip of his cold tea.

“So,” he said. “You and Neville.”

Ginny laughed a bit too. She tucked some of her short hair behind her ear.

“Yeah. You all right?”

Harry sighed. The house was quiet except for the odd creak of old wood and groaning pipes. Ron and Hermione had gone off for groceries, apparently, though they haven’t been back for hours. Harry suspected they’d wanted to give him and Ginny some privacy.

Why wouldn’t they? He’d asked for this, after all.

After failing to get anything out of Malfoy that day, Harry sent countless letters to his apartment, both by post and by owl. Hermione advised strongly against it, but Harry was sure Malfoy knew something. He just didn’t know what. At the aquarium, he hadn’t acted like the supposed ex-boyfriend he was from six-odd years ago, and he had definitely mentioned something about the week before. That should mean something, though Ron and Hermione remained skeptical.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Harry didn’t get one letter back.

The letters from Q had stopped coming as well. Harry wasn’t sure what that meant, and neither were Ron and Hermione. After a few weeks of stewing in this uncertainty, Harry finally caved and called Ginny over.

He wanted answers to at least one thing in his life.

And he’d gotten it. Neville. _Neville_ was the reason Ginny broke up with him. He didn’t know what to feel. Shock, mostly. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that Ginny would leave him for Neville – not to knock on Neville. Like Harry had said once upon a time, he was one of his best mates. It just blindsided him.

Just like that thing with Malfoy.

How the hell had that come about again?

“Harry?”

Harry looked up from the table to see Ginny still staring at him. She pushed the pensieve to the side, so that it wasn’t sitting in between them. The weight of memories dragged against the black wood.

“Harry,” she said. “Seriously. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said. He closed his eyes. “No. I don’t know.”

She paused. “Do you remember anything?”

Harry exhaled sharply. He rubbed his face and opened his eyes to see Ginny. The Ginny he remembered had long hair and slept in his bed. She kissed him goodnight and good morning; she threw birthdays parties for him. They made love together and promised each other the world.

This woman in front of him now was not the Ginny he remembered.

“No,” he said. “Nothing.”

They sat there in the silent kitchen for a few more moments, the seconds ticking by.

“I could –” Ginny started just as Harry said, “I’m sorry –”

They stopped, looking at each other.

“You go ahead,” Ginny said.

Harry blinked. He stared at his fingers.

“Thanks for coming today,” he said. He looked up. “Really. I appreciate it. I’d love to look at some of the other memories you mentioned, but –”

“You need some space,” Ginny said. She smiled, but Harry could see an old weariness touch the corners. “I understand. I was prepared for it actually.”

Harry tried smiling too. “Right.”

Ginny glanced down at her teacup, which was nearly full.

“Then I guess I should get going then,” she said. She got up and grabbed her purse, not looking at Harry.

Harry was trying not to look at her either. He followed her to the entryway, and there, they exchanged tight smiles.

“See you later,” he said.

Ginny hesitated at the door, and where another would have walked out, she decided to say what was on her mind. It was one of the things Harry loved about her.

“You shut me out for a year last time, Harry,” she said. “And I know that I deserved it and I know that you’d needed time, but please, as much as you’re able, don’t make me suffer so long this time around, all right?”

She took his hand. Her fingers felt warm and small.

“You’re my best friend and I love you,” she said. “Okay?”

Harry nodded, and her thin smile softened into something more genuine. She left. Harry could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his, the ghosts of kisses and whispered words.

If this was what heartbreak felt like, maybe he’d been lucky to not remember.

 

Harry spread out his blanket over the cold, stone floor. Malfoy watched from the other side with a bored look on his face, though in the moonlight, Harry could detect the tiniest hint of curiosity.

Harry removed the charm around his bag and started unpacking everything he’d brought. Beef casserole, steak-and-kidney pie, roast chicken, lamb chops, black pudding, baked pumpkin, mashed potatoes and gravy – Harry had brought small samples of everything he could reach that night at the Great Hall and stuffed it into his bag. Hermione had been teaching him how to do an Undetectable Extension Charm, and he was rather proud of how well it’d turned out for tonight.

Malfoy’s eyes were as wide as Hogwarts’ dinner plates by the time Harry was through. He hadn’t touched any of it, but Harry could see his fingers twitching.

“What is this?” he said sharply, looking over at Harry.

Harry shrugged. He pointed to one of the plates. “Those are mashed potatoes, that’s some black pudding –”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Malfoy said, slapping Harry’s hand away. “I know what they are, but why…?”

“You weren’t there for the feast today, were you?” Harry said. He started to help himself to some of the food, though he’d already eaten. It had been absolutely amazing this year, with live bats and pumpkins large enough to fit Hagrid, and the later games, complete with a live band, made it more of a party than the usual feast. He hadn’t had so much fun in a while, though the whole time, he couldn’t help but notice someone missing.

Harry avoided Malfoy’s suspicious look.

“You must be starving,” Harry said, taking a bite of casserole. “I know you skipped lunch too.”

Malfoy scoffed. “You’re not my mother, Potter,” he said, but he took a plate and loaded it up with all his favorites. He ate hungrily, not bothering with appearances like he used to when they first started this odd arrangement.

Arrangement. Was that the right word for it?

That’s what it felt like. Every night, Harry sneaked out of the dormitory, down to the kitchens, and up the Astronomy Tower to meet an equally sleep-deprived, starving, and prickly Malfoy. They ate in silence, and most of the times sat afterwards in silence, looking out on the grounds and the slowly lightening sky.

At best, conversation was stilted. At worst, they were throwing punches and nearly falling off the Tower. Twice now, Malfoy had to heal their wounds before storming off for the night.

And yet, the both of them kept coming back. Night after night, fight after fight, they kept going back to the Astronomy Tower for more – of what, Harry wasn’t sure.

Bickering, of course, and silence. A few laughs here and there. They even talked sometimes. Harry knew Malfoy’s favorite quidditch team now (the Appleby Arrows), and his least favorite (their rivals, the Wimbourne Wasps). He knew his favorite Seeker, which wasn’t the Arrows’ Gregory Cotton but Brazil’s Tony Silva, and his least favorite position to play (Keeper, same as Harry).

They even had a few things in common, outside of quidditch. They both agreed, for example, that the Firebolt was overall a better broom than the Thunderbolt, despite its legendary speed. They both felt that either way, they’d still have a go on it given the chance. They both collected chocolate frog cards, though Malfoy’s collection was far superior to Harry’s, and they both had summer birthdays.

They even felt sort of the same about their birthdays.

“What do you do for your birthday, normally?” Harry had asked that night. It was a few weeks out from the start of it all, and they were actually making conversation for once. Civil conversation, at that.

And yet instead of answering, Malfoy looked out at the grounds. They were sitting on the edge of the tower, legs dangling off the side like disembodied dolls. Harry didn’t mind the silence – it was how they were most of the time. He didn’t find it awkward or strange, any more than he found this situation awkward or strange. At that point, it was natural. Harry started counting the stars.

He had reached seventy when Malfoy finally spoke.

“When I was small,” he said. “I hated my birthday. It was the same day as my mother’s, you see, and I hated sharing. They would have the house elves make all my favorites and invite everyone who was anyone, but I still ended up disappointed every time it came ‘round because no matter what they did, it was still my mother’s birthday.

They never understood why I hated it so much. I loved all the other parties: Christmas, weddings, Thanksgiving and so forth. It just didn’t make sense. They thought the problem was the actual party itself, so of course every year, they made the parties more and more extravagant. That made it a little better.

I really didn’t think too much of them either way, so one time, I skived off the party to hang out with Pansy, who’d been ill and couldn’t make it. I was turning ten at the time, and it was the best birthday I’d had in ages. I don’t even remember what we did, really.

When I finally made it back, the party was over, and my father was furious. Part of it was they’d spent hours looking for me, even though I was just a few miles away. Most of it was I’d embarrassed them in front of everyone. This was supposed to be one of the biggest events that summer, and yet I’d made it a complete bust by not even bothering to show up. I’d never felt so ashamed.”

Malfoy leaned back on his hands, looking up at the moon.

“I never skipped another one after that.”

Malfoy fell silent again. Harry didn’t know what to think.

“Why didn’t you just celebrate them on two different days?” he said.

Malfoy looked over at him. He smiled.

“That would’ve made the most sense, wouldn’t it?”

Now, Harry handed Malfoy a slice of custard tart. He looked much more relaxed after having had a decent meal, which made Harry feel a bit better in turn.

Merlin, he was starting to sound like Molly.

Before this thought could disturb him any further, Malfoy spoke up.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said.

“Hm?”

Malfoy looked up from his tart, a thoughtful look his grey eyes. “How did you know I like custard tarts?”

Harry, who knew this question had to come up sooner or later, still choked on his food. He coughed as Malfoy sneered, though he deigned to conjure a glass of water after Harry tried – and failed – to do it wordlessly.

Harry chugged down the water. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Malfoy clicked his tongue. A look of disgust on his face, he conjured a napkin and threw it at Harry.

“Wipe yourself off properly, Potter.”

“Who’s mothering who now?” Harry muttered, but he took the napkin anyway. It felt like silk and glowed in the moonlight.

Malfoy gave him a sharp look.

Not in the mood to argue, Harry used the fancy cloth to clean his mouth ‘properly’ before vanishing it. Malfoy barely looked his way, though just weeks ago, he would have flinched if Harry so much as drew his wand.

As it was, Malfoy kept his wand on the floor, just within reach. Harry did as well.

“So?” Malfoy said. He took a bite of his tart.

“So what?”

He gave Harry a look. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”

Harry fidgeted on the stone floor, which was warmed by Malfoy’s Temperature Charm. Usually, the first person to get to the Tower did the Charm, which they’d decided through some silent agreement. Malfoy was better at them than Harry.

“I noticed you ate a lot of it, that’s all,” Harry said, which was true.

In all honesty, Harry knew quite a lot of random things about Malfoy. He knew, for example, that despite Voldemort practically breathing down his neck in sixth year, he had attended classes as studiously as Hermione. He knew that Malfoy liked to wile away his free periods in a hidden corridor on the second floor. He knew that Malfoy owned at least five different kinds of hair product (according to Kreacher), and that other than his silvery pyjamas, he owned a proper set of t-shirt and sweats that reportedly did nothing to diminish his look of nobility.

Knowing his favorite dessert was frankly nothing special, comparatively speaking.

Nevertheless, Malfoy looked a bit bewildered by this.

“Why the bloody hell would you notice something like that?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, feeling a bit bewildered himself. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it bloody matters,” he said. “Did you plan to poison me at some point or what?”

For some reason, Harry found this extremely funny. He started laughing. Malfoy looked even more unnerved by this, which made Harry laugh harder.

“What?” Malfoy put down his half-eaten tart. “What’s so funny?”

Harry just shook his head, still laughing, watching as in the starlight, Malfoy inspected his tart.

“You haven’t seriously poisoned me, have you Potter?” he said, and Malfoy sounded just a shade panicked, but Harry was tired, and his eleven-year-old self would have killed for a chance to mock Malfoy like this. He laughed until his ribs hurt.

Malfoy grew more panicked by the second, but Harry only called it quits when he saw Malfoy’s hand start to inch towards his wand.

“Relax,” he said, chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes. “I haven’t put anything in your food, you wanker.”

Malfoy flipped from paranoid to furious in the blink of an eye.

“Fucking hell, Potter!” Malfoy said. He shoved Harry so that his elbow fell hard into a cold slice of apple pie. “You think that’s funny do you?”

Harry brushed off the pie, feeling a twinge of regret for the wasted good.

“A bit yeah,” he said. “You know what else is funny?”

“I don’t give a damn –!”

Before Malfoy could react, before Harry could second-guess his actions, he threw the remains of his apple pie straight into Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy jumped, toppling backwards. There was a second of silence where Harry didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or run.

He almost inhaled the tart that smacked into his face a second later, nearly knocking his glasses off. Harry reached up to wipe them, but then he was knocked onto his back, his head cracking against the warm – but still stone – floor. He opened his mouth to curse Malfoy, but Malfoy jammed something sweet like strawberries – a cake? – straight into his mouth, and Harry struggled, but Malfoy’s weight held him down…

So that’s how he wanted to play, was it?

Harry bit down on Malfoy’s fingers. He grabbed the nearest dish – it felt like pudding – and stuffed a gob of it down Malfoy’s pants – Malfoy yelped, letting go – Harry bucked – he could breathe now and he was on top – Harry smeared every uneaten dessert he could reach onto Malfoy’s pale, pointy face and his posh pyjamas – Malfoy wriggled out – they got up, slipping and near-blind – they were running all over the tower, sticky, sweet, and throwing food because really Harry had brought way too much for just the two of them – Malfoy accused him of planning this all along – he was brandishing a chicken wing – they were laughing – Malfoy was trying to hide it, but he was honest to god laughing – Harry slipped on some ice cream – Malfoy laughed harder – Harry tripped him, rolling on top –

And he froze.

They were both panting. Pieces of food dropped softly. Owls hooted curiously. The Forbidden Forest shivered.

Malfoy’s face was caught in mid-laughter. Some dark dessert stained his pale hair, and pieces of pudding dotted his face. His skin was flushed red, down to the collarbone, where a few buttons had come loose. He was warm beneath Harry, a bit bony, solid.

He couldn’t look away from his eyes.

Harry grinned.

“I win,” he said.

Malfoy coughed to hide his laughter. He pushed against Harry.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

Harry got up, feeling lighter than he had in months.

“Yeah," he said.

He looked at Malfoy, who was bemoaning the fate of his poor pyjamas.

“But so are you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! Sorry it took so long to update, but hopefully I'll have more time to work on it this summer. Before then, I really wanted to get this chapter out, since it's been in the works for so long. Please let me know if it's alright! (Sorry I haven't really addressed the various mysteries yet - but that'll come later)


	4. Back to Hogwarts

The Red Lounge was nothing like Nightshade. The small, niche club Harry had frequented seven years ago had been decorated with artfully graffitied walls and strobe lights. On the weekends, heavily eyeshadowed people gathered to drink and dance to music that matched the beat of their heart, and they played pool or talked at the bar.

Things were a bit different at the Red Lounge.

Plush, red, semicircular couches lined one wall, and the people sat there downed multicolored drinks or made out with strangers. Empty glasses littered the tables, keeping the employees busy, and others sat by the bar or on high stools, laughing, drinking, and shouting to be heard over the music. A mass of bodies dominated the other side of the room, elbowing people, spilling expensive cocktails, but smiling like they were alive.

Harry was in the middle of that, along with Ron and Hermione.

They were holding fresh, new drinks, but each one of them looked the worse for wear: Hermione’s perfectly coifed hair was frizzing horribly, Ron looked a cross between constipated and electrocuted, and Harry – Harry was gone. He downed half his drink – a blue concoction that Hermione had told him never to try – and stumbled into a girl who cursed him, but then looked him up and down. She smirked. She pulled him closer.

Harry danced with this girl – short, dark-haired, all elbows – losing himself in bodies and vodka.

It was a week after Ginny had visited. Exactly a week, and that’s why Harry was here, at the Red Lounge. He wasn’t mourning. He wasn’t giving into despair. All last week, Harry had been telling Ron and Hermione this, but they still treated him like he was a particularly temperamental blast-ended skrewt. Ready to explode any second.

But really, Harry was _fine_. A bit heartbroken, yeah. Of course. Shocked and a little angry, but he wasn’t _depressed_ or anything. Harry had known he and Ginny weren’t together anymore – he’d known for weeks. He’d had time to get used to the idea.

Rather than dwell on what could have been, he found it more useful – and less hurtful – to focus on what was.

The girl pushed closer to him, wrapping her arms around him. She smelled like berries and sweat. Girls, dancing, drinks, and friends – in this heady cocktail, nothing mattered; not questions, mysteries, love, or loss. Not when he was at the Red Lounge. Not when he was drinking his liver away.

Harry finished off his drink, spilling a little on himself and the girl. She didn’t seem to mind. She rolled her hips into him, smiling up at him, and Harry smiled back. She leaned into his ear. She shouted something he still didn’t quite catch, and he was about to ask her to repeat herself when he saw it.

A flash of blond. He froze.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Blood surged through him with the sickening force of alcohol. Without thinking, Harry pried himself off the girl. She complained, trying to hold on, but he ignored her. He looked quickly over his shoulder. Ron and Hermione were a ways off, snogging and swaying drunkenly like new lovers.

Harry felt an odd, familiar pang in his chest.

He looked away. He pushed past perfumed girls and sweating guys, abandoning his empty drink on someone’s table. At the edge of the club, he blinked sweat out of his eyes. He tried to see the world straight. No blond-haired prick in sight.

Didn’t matter. Really, it didn’t.

He needed air.

Harry stumbled past the bouncer and, finally, he was outside. He breathed in and out. The night smelled like stars.

Fall was coming, but summer still clung on. Harry felt the warmth of yellow yesterdays. The Red Lounge beat behind him with a song that never seemed to change, but the London streets were no quieter. Even at – what, 1 AM? – cars and people streamed by like it was one in the afternoon.

Harry missed Hogwarts.

What would they say, if he came back to repeat his eighth year? It was only fair, after all – he’d never experienced it, really, not as he was now. It had been the only concrete thing that’d kept him going all that summer, the one after the war: the knowledge that Hogwarts would be whole again, that he would be going back, at least one more time.

Until someone took it from him.

Harry leaned against the wall of the club – it was brick, like the entrance to Diagon Alley. What would happen if he started tapping the wall with his wand?

He laughed.

Passerby passed by, not caring.

What if he apparated to Hogwarts? Harry imagined it for a second – the Great Hall, Hagrid’s place, the Gryffindor Common Room – but then he remembered in a voice that sounded a lot like Hermione’s that he couldn’t apparate in or out of Hogwarts.

He could apparate to Hogsmeade.

Longing washed over him, and Harry wanted nothing more, suddenly. He wanted to be at Hogsmeade, meeting the DA at the Hog’s Head, drinking butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, buying sweets at Honeydukes. He wanted to be eighteen again, he wanted to be living at the Burrow again, he wanted to go to Hogwarts again, he wanted to be Ginny’s boyfriend again.

Was that so much to ask?

Harry looked at a litter of abandoned fags at his feet.

He couldn’t apparate to Hogsmeade, not in this state. He still had enough sense to realize that. He’d have to get Ron or Hermione to take him, though he didn’t exactly relish the prospect of interrupting them at the moment. They were just as pissed, anyway.

Harry slid down the wall. Leaning against it, he looked up at the dark sky, where he couldn’t see the waxing crescent moon, nor the stars.

It was nothing like up on the Astronomy Tower, where on a clear night, one could see the universe.

“You all right there?”

Harry looked up. A girl stood above him, tiny with brown hair. He recognized her, just vaguely. He’d danced with her.

Harry waved her off. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said.

The girl leaned against the wall. “You don’t look fine.”

Harry ignored her. She didn’t leave, however, instead choosing to light up. He wrinkled his nose automatically. To his surprise, however, the bitter scent didn’t make him recoil like it used to. Actually, he sort of liked it.

“Hey,” Harry said, surprising himself further. He looked up again. “Can I have one of those?”

The girl looked at him strangely. Then, shrugging, she sat down next to him, handing over a fag.

When Harry took his first pull, an immediate and acute sense of calm washed through him. Insanely, he felt like he’d missed this, though he’d never done it before. He dragged in another dizzying pull of nicotine and enjoyed watching the thin, white smoke stream out as he breathed.

The girl watched him. She was pretty, though pixie-like.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a smoker, Mr Potter,” she said.

Harry started, coughing and almost dropping his fag. “What –?”

“And despite your legendary skills, it seems you’re surprisingly unobservant.” She smiled with wide lips that dominated her small face. “Though I’d give you a pass, seeing as how you’re a bit pissed at the moment.”

“You’re…” Harry slugged through his mind, which seemed to be filled with cotton swabs – or way too many drinks. “You’re a witch.”

“I am, indeed.”

Harry blinked, staring. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“Pulling,” the girl said. She smiled wider.

Harry eyed her suspiciously, and she laughed.

“I live in muggle London,” she said. “Just a few blocks away. I come here all the time, actually.”

Harry glared at the ground. Just his luck, wasn’t it, the one muggle club he went to in weeks, possibly years, was actually frequented by a witch.

“Well, thanks for – this.” Harry gestured to the fag, and really, his body felt oddly thankful. “But I’d rather be alone right now.”

“You sure?” the girl said. She pulled from her own fag, her hollowed cheeks making her look all skin and bones. “I’ve got some nice tonic at home that could help. Better than sitting here all alone and miserable, like.”

“I’m fine.”

The girl looked at him. “It won’t be any trouble at all if that’s what you’re worried about. I could even apparate us if you don’t feel up to walking.”

“Really,” Harry said. He pulled in one last drag, and reluctantly, he let the fag join all the others on the floor. He stood up, stamping it out. “I’m fine. I should be getting back, anyway.”

The girl stood up too. “But you really don’t look all right,” she said. She dropped her fag as well, stamping it out with the tip of her heels. She looked up at him. “I know a broken heart when I see one.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said.

“You say that an awful lot.” The girl cocked her head. She looked up at him through thick lashes, twitching her smile into a practiced seduction. “Don’t you want to know what it actually feels like?”

Harry stared. For a second, he was tempted. This girl, witch, was all right-looking, bold, and dry but with a warm smile. She wanted him, more than Ginny wanted him, more than Malfoy. Harry felt warm, drunk, horny, and definitely not fine.

He shook his head. “I – I can’t.”

The girl dropped her smile.

“Harry,” she said, and it sounded wrong, coming from a stranger. “It’s all right.”

She reached out a hand, running bony fingers over his arm. Harry jerked back, almost tripping over his feet.

“I’m fine, all right?” he said. “Just sod off already.”

“Sod off?” She stepped closer. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Harry took another step back. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not at all.”

She made as if to touch his arm again, and maybe she’d just wanted to ghost her thin fingers over his skin again, or maybe she’d meant to side-along apparate him to hers, but Harry was irritated. He was drunk, and she might have been able to make him feel better, who knew, but at the moment, he found he’d rather splinch himself than deal with her any longer.

So, he did.

“Fuck!”

Harry leaned against the nearest wall, clutching his left hand. The tops of his fingers, except for his thumb, felt like they’d been burned, and when Harry dared to look, he saw small, red squares where his fingernails had been.

Could have been worse. Still, it fucking _hurt_.

Harry kept up a steady stream of expletives, which also kept his nausea at bay. He hated apparating.

He wasn’t even sure where he’d apparated _to_ , though he’d had an address in mind, at the time. Blinking away warm tears, Harry inspected the door right in front of him. It was a heavy green rectangle framed by grey tiles, identical to the other ones in the hallway, as far as Harry could tell, except for the small, silver number near the knocker.

  1. Maybe he’d gotten something right.



Harry thought briefly about knocking when suddenly, the door opened with a metallic groan.

Draco Malfoy stared back at him from the other side, surprise etched over his face.

“Harry?” he said. His voice was thick with sleep, slightly hoarse. He rubbed his eye. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Harry’s own surprise numbed his pain for a second.

Malfoy, _Draco Malfoy_ , was looking back at him from an apartment right in the middle of muggle London, wearing a faded, grey T-shirt and black sweats. He looked so human, with a cowlick on one side of his head and grey eyes weary with sleep.

“I – I just –” he stammered out.

“Are you drunk?”

Malfoy stopped rubbing his eye. He glared at Harry.

“Well – I might’ve – I mean, yeah, just a bit –”

Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, but then flinched as pain shot through his fingers again. “Fuck!” he said.

Malfoy glanced at Harry’s hand. His mouth twisted into a more familiar, pointed anger.

“Hang on, did you apparate here?” he said. He looked at Harry. “Are you a bloody idiot? What if one of my neighbors saw you?”

“No one saw me,” Harry almost spit out. His fingers fucking throbbed.

“Yes, but someone could have!” Malfoy said. The door groaned as he stood taller, eyes flashing. “Merlin, can’t you ever just stop and think for a second before you decide to act like a fucking moron?”

“There’s no one here!” Harry said.

“But someone could have been!”

“It’s two in the morning!”

“It’s London!”

Harry scoffed, and it almost felt good to get angry. It was better than just standing dumbstruck, and he knew irritated, ferrety Malfoy. The soft, sleep-tousled, just-got-out-of-bed one? Not so much.

“Everyone’s asleep at this point,” he said. “No one’s about to come and watch me apparate or use magic, even –”

“Shut up!” Malfoy hissed. “Merlin, does the Statute of Secrecy mean nothing to you?”

“It matters,” Harry said, but only because he couldn’t think of anything better. It sounded right, in any case.

Malfoy had opened his mouth, ready to retort, but at this, he closed it again. His lips twitched a little.

“Then…find Hermione and get yourself back home,” he said. “Before you make an even bigger arse of yourself.”

“No.”

Malfoy gave him a sharp look, but Harry refused to leave. Almost a month had gone by since Harry last saw Malfoy at the aquarium, even longer since he’d learned about their past relationship. All those weeks it had kept gnawing at him, pestering him, the questions of why, how, what, when, and where. He wasn’t about to let this chance slip through his fingers, pissed or not.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry said. “It’s important.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait until you’re sober enough to apparate properly, at least.”

“No, it can’t, you don’t–”

Harry stopped, momentarily distracted. He took another look at Malfoy’s shirt.

“Hang on, is that – is that mine?” he said.

Malfoy glanced down at his shirt too. It was an old, grey Metallica T-shirt, faded with one too many washes, and it looked very much like the one Harry had taken from Sirius’ room a few – or several? – years ago. It had been big on him then, and it looked a bit big on Malfoy now.

He looked back at Harry.

“How pissed are you?” he said. He actually looked a bit concerned, though Harry could have been imagining that. He rolled his eyes. “I told you, I only wear it out of convenience. Don’t get your wand in a knot just because I fancy a shirt you wore ages ago.”

“I – but when did I –?”

“What do you mean, when?” Malfoy said. His light brows scrunched together. Definitely concerned.

“I mean –” Harry sighed. This would have been so much easier if he weren’t half as drunk. He was rapidly developing a headache. “Look, this is what I wanted to talk to you about. Can I come inside?” He winced. “And can I get something for my hand? And – and for sobering up a bit too, if you have it?”

Malfoy looked deeply suspicious. After a few heavy seconds, however, he gave a curt, “Fine,” and stood aside to let Harry through.

Harry almost cried with relief.

He could to talk to Malfoy, _finally_. Who knew all it took was a bit of splinching and alcohol?

Harry walked into the apartment, stumbling a bit as he glanced again at his – Malfoy’s – shirt. It made his stomach feel all funny, though he couldn’t be sure if that was actually the alcohol coming back with a vengeance.

Malfoy closed the door behind Harry with a very final, metallic groan. Tearing his eyes off Malfoy, Harry looked around.

It was nice. Not gaudy or overly Slytherin like he’d vaguely expected it to be, but minimalistic, with matching furniture. There was a small kitchen to the left, with a countertop and barstools. Across the entryway, a hallway stretched out, presumably leading to a bedroom. To his right, Malfoy had a soft, black couch that faced a fancy-looking TV. There was also a lamp and a laptop, which rested on a glass-topped table.

Harry stared at these casual bits of technology, feeling once again like he’d just stepped into an alternate universe.

Because there was no possible way this apartment belonged to Draco Malfoy. And yet, there was Malfoy, staring at him with what looked like mild confusion.

“Wait here,” he said.

Giving Harry one last confused look, he left for the hallway. Harry hesitated for a second, and then sat down on one of the barstools. He glanced at a pile of papers off to the side. Curious, he took the topmost one.

_Milk, pasta, chicken, garlic, heavy cream, apples…_

Harry smiled a little. A grocery list. It seemed so normal. He looked at the next one.

A utility bill, for water. Another for electricity – Merlin, did he keep the lights on all day? – some coupons for muggle restaurants, muggle clothing stores…

“What are you doing?”

Harry jumped. Ads and bills dropped to the floor. Malfoy stared at him with one cool eyebrow hitched up, and Harry fumbled for words.

“I, er, I was just –”

“Stealing my coupons?” Malfoy said. He walked over, placing two bottles on the counter before stooping to pick up the scraps of paper.

Harry shifted in his seat.

“Let me –” he started, but then Malfoy was already getting back up.

“Drink this first,” he said. He handed over a slightly smoking bottle. Harry took it gingerly. Having experienced the taste of Wideye Potion before, he hesitated. Malfoy looked at him expectantly.

Wrinkling his nose, Harry sipped at the drink, but then nearly spit it back out with surprise. It didn’t taste like the mix of vomit and cherries he’d become used to after a couple nights out. Rather, it tasted more like soap and something minty. After the initial shock, Harry drank a bit too eagerly, and for a second, he felt like he’d have a heart attack.

Malfoy quickly grabbed the bottle from him.

“Merlin, are you trying to kill yourself?!” he said.

Harry flinched, Malfoy’s voice suddenly sounding much too loud. He clutched the countertop, taking deep breaths as the potion worked its way through his system. He had a terrible, dizzying moment where he felt like he’d fall off his stool, but then a few seconds later, he felt abruptly fine.

Harry took another deep, steadying breath. He opened his eyes, not remembering when he’d closed them.

Malfoy was right in front of him. Harry froze. It was different, seeing him sober. Harry saw again his worn, grey shirt and his soft, weary look. Yet, Harry also saw the boy up on the Astronomy Tower, he saw Malfoy bleeding to death in the bathroom, he saw him pale and scared in Courtroom Ten.

It was jarring, to say the least.

Harry cleared his throat.

“Er, thanks,” he said. “Where’d you get that? It tastes a hell of a lot better than any Wideye Potion I’ve had.”

Malfoy gave him another funny look.

“That’s because I made it,” he said. “You’ve had it before, remember?”

“Oh, er, right. Yeah.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Now. He needed to say it now, but the words wouldn’t come out. They seemed to be stuck in his throat.

“Right,” Malfoy said. His look lingered, but instead of pressing, he uncorked the bottle of what Harry supposed was dittany. “Give me your hand.”

Harry hesitated for a brief second. Just about all of his instincts told him to run the other way now that he was stone-sober, or to take out his wand, at least, but Malfoy was acting so casual about all this. He didn’t even seem to notice Harry’s low-level panic as he sat on a barstool next to Harry, holding his own hand out.

Hoping he wouldn’t regret it, Harry gave up his hand. Malfoy’s pale fingers wrapped around it, and they were surprisingly warm, gentle even. It made Harry’s skin tingle.

Malfoy added a careful drop of dittany to Harry’s forefinger.

“Are you aware,” he said, suddenly. “That you reek of cigarettes?”

Harry flinched, and Malfoy cursed as dittany spilled onto his countertop.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

“What does it matter?” Harry said. He tried to stay absolutely still this time.

Malfoy made this difficult by pointing his wand at him. Or well, at his finger. The dittany had made the raw, red wound look several weeks old, but with a few, small movements from Malfoy’s wand, the skin, though still absent a fingernail, looked almost brand new.

Harry stared.

“I keep telling you to use nicotine patches,” Malfoy said. He started on Harry’s middle finger. “It’s near impossible to quit cold turkey, you’ll just keep sneaking in the odd fag when no one’s watching.”

Harry ran his thumb over the tight, new skin Malfoy created, reveling in the sheer magic.

“And no matter how stubborn you want to be about this, you can’t deny I’ve gone on much longer than you without a fag, by far.”

Malfoy moved onto Harry’s ring finger.

“You could hardly call it a competition, at this rate.”

Harry frowned. He wasn’t exactly sure on everything Malfoy was talking about, but if they had been having some kind of competition over swearing off cigarettes…first, Harry felt a stupid pang at inadvertently having put himself at a disadvantage. Second, he realized that they _did_ know each other in this strange future. They were acquaintances or friends or something, and Harry reveled in this knew knowledge. How or why this had come about he’d have to find out later.

As for the third –

“But using nicotine patches is cheating, isn’t it?” he said.

Malfoy ran a light fingertip over Harry’s pinky finger, testing the new skin. He rolled his eyes.

“Trust me,” he said. “It’s not nearly the same as an actual fag. And it’s a proven method against curbing addiction, though if you’d rather stick with repeatedly _willing_ your addiction away, I won’t stop you.”

Malfoy set the dittany back on the counter, scoffing. Before Harry could think of anything to say to this – what could he say, without giving himself away? – Malfoy went on.

“I trust you have your own Skele-gro,” he said. He set the dittany on the counter, climbing off the barstool. “I can give you some of mine, but I don’t think you’d fancy the prospect of taking it now. I also recommend you get yourself back to yours as soon as possible – you were with Ron and Hermione, weren’t you? They must be going mad right about now, looking for you.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Harry said, though he wasn’t, really.

Malfoy crossed his arms. “I’m sure they’re not.”

“Well –” Harry got off his barstool as well, biting his lip. “They’ll have to be, at any rate. This is important.”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “What, getting splinched?”

“No!” Harry said. “I’ve got something to tell you, remember?”

Malfoy stilled for a second, as if holding his breath.

Then he sighed.

“Are we really going to talk about this now?” he said.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Malfoy ran a hand through his already messy hair. “It’s just – I’m tired, Harry. I’d rather not do this right now.”

Harry glared, irritation, for a second, tempering his confusion. “Well maybe if you’d answered some of my letters, I could’ve come at a more convenient time for you,” he said.

“Sorry about that,” Malfoy said, not sounding sorry at all. “But I needed some time to think it over. Not everyone’s as utterly careless as you are when it comes to making important decisions.”

“I – what?”

“I’m saying I’ve thought about it, all right?”

Malfoy sighed. He leaned against the counter, glaring at the floor. “I’ve thought about it so much it’s driving me mad. You always manage to do that somehow, even when you’re not here.”

Thought about what? Harry wanted to ask, but Malfoy went on.

“And before you ask,” he said. “I stand by what I said. I think it’s a horrible idea. If we were being smart about this, we’d stop seeing each other altogether.”

Malfoy exhaled sharply, laughing a bit.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it? We swore this wouldn’t happen again. We bloody shook on it. But here we are, going back on our word. It’s like you and your bloody fags. I didn’t even want to do this, not now when I’m dead tired and pissed off at you for waking me up in the middle of the night. But it’s fitting, I suppose.”

Malfoy looked at Harry. His grey eyes were open, not glaring anymore, but knowing. Soft.

“Harry,” he said. “I want to say I’m going to do the smart thing. That I’ll stay away because it never works out between us and we’d be fools to think that this time will go any better. I was going to. I’d really intended to stick with it this time. But if you hadn’t come find me, I would’ve gone to Grimmauld myself, and it’s ridiculous, how much I can’t help myself when it comes to you.”

Malfoy bit his lip, looking away.

“You need to be the smart one for once,” he said. “Say that you’ve changed your mind and that you’re going to walk away from this, because I can’t. I’ve tried so hard and for so long, but I’m tired of it, Harry. I’m tired of trying to get on without you.”

He looked back at Harry, and now, more than ever, Harry regretted not being able to remember. Because Malfoy’s eyes were a steely grey, his pale face bruised with lack of sleep yet somehow glowing, and it rooted Harry to the floor, to him.

“I love you too, you know,” Malfoy said. “I always have.”

Harry stared. He felt like a thief suddenly, starring in a play that had been written for someone else entirely. Because there was something big here, something so monumental it made Malfoy look soft as a pygmy puff, and as affectionate as Hagrid. Harry could practically see the heart on Malfoy’s sleeve, but it wasn’t for him to know what it looked like, or what it meant. Not really.

“I’m – I’m not really sure how to say this,” Harry started. “So I’m just going to say it.”

Harry glanced at Malfoy. He looked a bit confused by this, wary. Harry felt the words jam in his throat, but he had to say it. He didn’t have a choice, did he?

He took a breath.

“Ibinoblibiated,” he said on the exhale.

Malfoy stared.

“What?” he said.

Harry took another breath, reddening slightly. “I – well, a week before my birthday, at the end of July, something happened, no one knows for sure, really, and, well, what happened was, I woke up, and I couldn’t remember the last seven years of my life.”

Malfoy seemed to freeze. He didn’t say anything. Harry went on.

“Obviously, I’d been obliviated. By someone. No one knows who, and my supervisor at the Ministry, bloke named Robards, said he’s looking into it, but I haven’t heard from him in a couple weeks, and I’m more concerned with trying to get my bearings for now, in any case. A lot’s happened in the past seven years, turns out, and it’s – well, it’s a bit overwhelming, to tell you the truth, especially when I heard that I, with you, that we, er, that we –”

“No,” Malfoy said. His voice was faint, his face deathly pale.

Harry shifted. “I – I still don’t know a lot of what happened,” he said. “My healer said I should look through people’s memories of me – I have a pensieve back at my place. It’s supposed to jog my own memories, in theory, but it hasn’t really helped so far…”

Harry trailed off. Malfoy just kept staring.

“I’m sorry for ambushing you at the aquarium,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean to – to scare you off or –”

“Why?” Malfoy said. Harry stopped.

“What?”

Malfoy stepped back, away from Harry. His eyes were wide.

“If you were obliviated, why were you there? And here too, how could you know…?”

“I – Hermione told me,” Harry said, because he didn’t particularly want to explain his desperate midnight Floo call to Malfoy’s mother. “And as for the aquarium…it was my birthday, that day. I’d never been. I wanted to see what it was like.”

Malfoy looked pained at this. He ran a hand through his hair. It was shaking.

“That’s – that’s impossible,” he said. “You’re lying.”

Harry took a step forward.

“I’m not lying,” he said.

“Yes, you are!”

Malfoy backed further away from him, glaring at nothing. Harry felt a sudden urge to reach out towards him, though he didn’t dare.

“Malfoy…”

At this, Malfoy looked at Harry. His hands were clenched into fists, bone-white at his sides.

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice cracked.

Harry quickly realized his mistake. “Sorry – Draco –”

“Stop!”

Glass exploded, and abruptly, they were plunged into darkness. With Malfoy’s blinds drawn, Harry could barely see his outline in the dark. He heard Malfoy take deep breaths. Harry stood still, trying not to make a sound.

After several seconds ticked by, Malfoy finally spoke.

“Get out,” he said.

Harry tried to peer through the gloom. “Wait,” he said. “But –”

“I said get the fuck out of my apartment, Potter!”

A wordless, perhaps even wandless, spell hit Harry, knocking him back into the barstools. Pain exploded all along his backside as he hit the floor, and he thought for a second about retaliating, but then he paused. He listened to ragged, shallow breaths in the dark. Slowly, Harry got up.

He fumbled his way to the front door. There, he paused.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Malfoy said nothing.

 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Malfoy said, for the hundredth time. “If this ‘electricity’ can create light and hover objects thousands of meters up in the air, I don’t see why you can’t use it to apparate!”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, for probably the hundredth time as well. He looked at Malfoy in the light of a nearly full moon. Frustration stormed in his eyes, and Harry felt no different. He ripped some grass from the ground, playing with it instead of flicking Malfoy in the face.

“Muggle technology just doesn’t work that way, all right?” he said. “Think of it like – like a rope, yeah? Things have to be connected in order for it to work –”

“Then what’s that whole business with remote controllers?” Malfoy said. He gestured out towards the sprawling grounds. “Isn’t the whole point to work technology from a distance?”

“Well, they’re still connected, just invisibly, I guess –”

“’You guess’,” Malfoy said. He scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t you grow up in the muggle world, Potter? How do you not know these things?”

“We didn’t really get to the finer points of computer engineering in grade school, Malfoy.”

“Computer what?”

Groaning, Harry flopped back on the grass. He stared up at the clear, November sky. The weather was getting a bit chilly, especially at night, but he and Malfoy had agreed upon a change of scenery for once. Tonight, they were by the Black Lake instead of the Tower, and it looked even blacker at night. It was as bit eerie, to be honest. What was worse, Temperature Charms didn’t work as well without a sort of shelter to apply it to, and their cloaks could only do so much. Despite everything, however, it felt nice, being out on grounds.

Harry spoke to the stars.

“Professor Morris went over it the other day, didn’t she? Muggles have specialized professions for learning how to use technology. It takes years and a lot of hard work to get the hang of.”

Malfoy clicked his tongue. After a second, he lay down beside Harry.

“That doesn’t make sense either,” he said. “Muggles use technology like magic, it seems like. How could the majority of the population use it without knowing how it works?”

“The same way I can transfigure a hat without knowing all the exceptions to Gamp’s Law.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, and Harry could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Which would go swimmingly for you, I’m sure, until you tried to conjure a vat full of treacle tart.”

“But I don’t need to know the law to use magic, do I?”

“You don’t _need_ to, I suppose,” Malfoy said. Harry could hear the frustration in his voice, and he suppressed a grin. “But you would be a rather poor wizard if you tried to use magic without understanding the principles behind it. You’d be little more than a child.”

“And that’s why we go to school,” Harry said. “It’s the same for muggles.”

“Yes, but not all of them study electricity, do they?”

“No, they study other things, like literature.”

Malfoy huffed. “Literature,” he said, rather darkly. “It’s all ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t, did I?” Harry shifted on the grass, stretching with a yawn. “I was just sitting here quietly. You’re the one who wanted to go on about electricity.”

“Well, I apologize for being interested in this sort of thing.”

“I don’t care if you’re interested,” Harry said. He looked at Malfoy. “But Merlin, I can only talk about the intricacies of the clicker for so long.”

Malfoy looked back at Harry. He asked why Harry was trying to deter him from learning, what he had against clickers, and if, in his opinion, clickers were as much of a cultural phenomenon as pencils.

Harry tried not to rip his hair out.

It was the week after Halloween. Classes were picking up as usual, professors demanding six-foot long essays and giving out pop quizzes nearly every day, making them less random and more just plain torture.

Even Muggle Studies was beginning to challenge Harry. Just the other day, Ron had gotten higher marks on an assignment than he did. It felt a bit ridiculous, a bit too _Hermione_ , to get so irritated over a grade, but Ron still got ‘telephone’ and ‘television’ mixed up. Harry suspected Hermione was helping Ron out more than they were letting on.

Malfoy, it turned out, also liked to discuss schoolwork when it started to reach a peak, even Muggle Studies. Harry was, in fact, continually surprised that Malfoy liked to discuss anything with him, though less so since that Halloween night.

Things had seemed to change, after. Harry couldn’t exactly put his finger on what, but conversation came easier. Rather than sit in silence, they laughed more, and instead of pretending the daylit world didn’t exist, they talked about classes, Unity events, quidditch games, and once, even politics. Now, they could even make outings from their small spot on the Tower, rather than stare at the sky and Forbidden Forest for hours on end.

Harry had never exactly dreaded his time with Malfoy, but he found himself actually looking forward to it now. Increased schoolwork aside, this past week had been almost pleasant, with even sleep coming easier than it used to. Hermione had even mentioned earlier today that he was looking better, though it didn’t deter her from asking, again, what he got up to during the nights.

As usual, Harry pointedly ignored her and moved on to a different topic.

Harry looked over at Malfoy now. He’d finally stopped asking his increasingly difficult questions, after Harry threw up his hands and refused to answer. Merlin, he could even be worse than Mr Weasley sometimes.

Now, Malfoy’s inquisitive, grey eyes were closed, his face relaxed. A soft breeze ruffled his pale hair.

“Did you fall asleep?” Harry said.

A beat of silence.

“Yes.”

Harry snorted. Rather than endure twenty questions again, he left Malfoy to his non-sleep and looked back up at the sky.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure why he’d been keeping this a secret from Ron and Hermione. They’d given him plenty of opportunities to tell. Yet, every time they’d asked, Harry either ignored them, or said he was just taking a walk around the castle. Ron quit trying to wheedle it out of him months ago. Hermione was less forgiving.

Harry knew there wasn’t anything to be afraid of, not from them. They wouldn’t take it well, of course, but they’d understand. Eventually. He honestly didn’t much care about them finding out, but he was afraid of how Malfoy would react to them knowing. He’d never said anything, but somehow, Harry knew Malfoy wanted to keep this a secret. He understood why – the school would go mad if they found out, and they brought on enough attention as it was. No, it was better to keep things the way they were, at least for now. Not that they were being entirely discreet, but it felt nice, pretending that in the dead of night, nothing existed but owls, crickets, and their light conversations.

Harry looked over at Malfoy again. His eyes were still closed.

“Are you asleep now?” he said.

“Are you up to something, Potter?” Malfoy muttered. “Planning to ambush me the second I nod off?”

“That’d be a rather shoddy plan, seeing as how you never sleep.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched. He opened his eyes and looked at Harry. “Neither do you.”

“A nice couple of vampires, aren’t we?” Harry said.

“Vampires probably sleep more than the two of us combined,” Malfoy said. He scoffed. “Honestly, Potter, do you ever pay attention in class?”

Harry sighed, looking back up at the sky. “It’s eerie, how much you sound like Hermione sometimes,” he said. “You two should’ve gone to Ravenclaw and saved me a world of nagging.”

“It’s not nagging to tell you to stay awake in class,” Malfoy said. “It’s just common sense, which chronically seems to be in short supply when it comes to you.”

Harry laughed sharply, earning him a curious look from Malfoy. Ignoring this, Harry rolled onto his side, cushioning his head with his arm.

“Look,” he said. “’Common sense’ would be sleeping when I’m tired so that I don’t collapse from exhaustion.”

“’Common sense’ would be to take some Dreamless Sleep and be done with it.”

“Yeah?” Harry said. “Then why don’t you?”

A beat of silence fell. Harry saw Malfoy’s lips thin, and he instantly regretted asking his question. Malfoy looked away.

“It doesn’t work for me,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it doesn’t work.”

“But –”

“And you?” Malfoy said. He rolled onto his side too, so that they were facing each other. Malfoy’s grey eyes were narrowed, the corner of his mouth frowning. “Why don’t you take it?”

Harry frowned too. This was a bit too personal for his liking, though he’d inadvertently started it. He couldn’t use the ‘it doesn’t work’ excuse either, because Malfoy had snatched it first. He’d really dug a hole for himself with this one.

Malfoy looked back at him expectantly, his fingers clutching at a few blades of grass like miniature lifelines. Harry sighed.

“I did, at first,” he said. “But I didn’t like having to rely on it. And the nightmares stopped after a while anyway…”

“Yeah?”

Harry hesitated, but Malfoy kept looking at him, not saying anything.

“And it’s not like it helps. It’s – it’s difficult sometimes, being here. The first time I came back to the Great Hall, all I could see was them, Lupin and Tonks and – and Colin…and all the ghosts. It gets to me sometimes, just seeing them, and then there’s everyone else, bombarding me with questions about what it was like to off Voldemort – ” Malfoy flinched, his fingers ripping grass from the ground, but Harry ignored this “– and they want to know how I survived, and what I’d been doing the rest of that year, they even ask about Dumbledore sometimes, and it keeps it fresh, you know, when all I’d like is to just move on, and getting knocked out for a few hours doesn’t help any.”

“Then why’d you come back?”

Harry stared at Malfoy, at the bruise-colored shadows underneath his eyes and a half-healed cut by his hairline that he must’ve forgotten to spell away.

“Why did you?” he said.

Malfoy’s frown deepened, but it was only fair that he answered this one instead of Harry. He’d confessed a good bit, just now.

Briefly, Harry wondered why this didn’t feel as strange as it should have, being here and talking about such private things with Malfoy, of all people. The last time he’d talked about any of this was with Ginny, in the darkness of the room they shared, whispering with their arms around each other and making love.

Harry froze.

He felt suddenly too close to Malfoy. Their hands were almost touching, their lips just inches away, and Malfoy's silver eyes were entirely different from Ginny's but he suddenly saw in them the same kind of understanding. The same kind of warmth. Before he could do anything about this, however - like get up and spring back to his dorm - Malfoy’s mouth quirked into a half-smile.

“I came here to learn, Potter,” he said. “Strange as that may seem to you.”

Taken aback, Harry just stared. Then he cracked a smile.

“You definitely should’ve been in Ravenclaw, Malfoy,” he said.

“Please,” he said. He rolled his eyes. “Blue isn’t my color.”

Harry laughed and turned back to face the stars. He felt light, suddenly. He thought back to something Ron had said the other day, that Harry had been “grinning an awful lot lately”.

Harry felt his arm brush against Malfoy’s, and he listened to him go on about how black, green, and silver did wonders for his complexion. He shivered as Malfoy replenished the Temperature Charm and laughed when Malfoy tried to convince him he looked great in lilac as well. Right now, Harry found it easy to push down whatever anxieties he had about this thing between them: what people would say, what he even thought about all this.

Because right now, he couldn’t stop grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back! I'm also officially done with school, so hopefully that means more regular updates, I'm thinking about every two weeks? I'll try to keep it shorter, since there's a lot I want to do with this story before the summer's out. For now, hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Mysteries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! The first part, set in the present tense, went on a little long, so I thought I could just post it as its own chapter. The accompanying flashback will be in the chapter after this, and I might actually do this for the rest of the story. We'll see!

Harry stumbled as he walked out of the grate, shaking ash out of his hair. He inhaled stale, dry air and took in the new rumble of noise: people walking and chattering, a fountain tinkling. He straightened his glasses.

He walked into the Atrium.

The last time he was at the Ministry was for Malfoy’s trial, though he’d been requested as a witness for others later that summer. Then, the building had been in the process of transitioning back from ‘Magic is Might’; the atmosphere subdued, the empty space in the middle of room morbidly captivating.

Now, golden messages shifted on the ceiling again, the polished, oak floor thundering under harried feet. The gilded fireplaces flashed with Ministry employees leaving and arriving, though Harry could also hear the faint popping sounds of people who preferred to apparate.

Although the Monday morning gloom still hung over every tired and pinched face – something that never seemed to change, even during the war – the room itself felt light in a way it never had before. Even the new fountain, though similar to the one he’d given his galleons to so many years ago, seemed merrier.

As he got closer, he paused there, staring up at the statues.

There was still a wizard, witch, goblin, centaur, and house elf, but they were facing outwards towards every Ministry employee passing by. They were also holding hands, making a circle with a merperson, giant, and what looked like two muggles. The gold ceiling above and coins within made the water in the middle sparkle cheerfully, highlighting the determined faces carved into each statue. It reminded Harry strongly of Luna’s bedroom. It had the same kind of strange, yet wonderful magic.

Harry fished through his wallet and brought out a galleon.

 _For St. Mungo’s_ , he thought as he flicked it into the pool. _Here’s to hoping they find me a proper cure._

Harry walked on to the golden gates at the end of the hall, nodding at people who gave him weary smiles and an occasional, “Morning, Auror Potter.” He hoped this was the sort of thing he usually did.

When he finally caught a lift, he got squeezed between the wall and a heavily perfumed witch a head taller than him. She was reading a purple memo, her elbow digging into his side. She did not move her position as the lift labored its way up six floors, the people around them repeatedly going out, then in, keeping the place crowded.

After several excruciating minutes, the cool, disembodied voice finally announced, “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

Harry accidentally knocked the witch’s sharp elbow aside as he bolted out, and a high-pitched squawk followed after him. Before he could apologize, the lift clanged shut behind him.

Harry took deep breaths of the stale, but still relatively refreshing air. He started down the carpeted corridor. It had been almost a decade since he took the same trip with Mr. Weasley. Time made the hallway seem smaller, less intimidating, and Harry took heart in this fact.

He’d been nervous for days now. Earlier this week, Robards had contacted him for the first time since he left the hospital. He’d asked Harry to come in to the Ministry, saying in his letter that they had “a serious matter to discuss”. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been theorizing on what that matter could be ever since, though with so little information to go on, their ideas couldn’t get very far.

Instead, they focused on preparing Harry for the trip into the Ministry, and it felt like breaking in all over again. Ron detailed the Auror Headquarters for him, who was who, what was where. He learned his cubicle used to be next to Ron’s, until he started working at home for his “special mission”. It was now taken over by a genial witch named Nan Clarke. Rumor in the office was that she and Harry were involved, though Ron assured him that they’d just had a one-off at last year’s Christmas party.

Apparently, Harry had had a fair number of one-offs over the years, not only with strangers but also Ministry employees. There was a witch from Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, a few from the Department of Mysteries, even a bloke from Magical Maintenance, and Merlin knew who else.

Harry had to stare back in disbelief as Ron said this. Ron just shrugged and said, “You’re a force to be reckoned with when you’ve had a few drinks in you, mate. And I reckon there aren’t a lot of people out there who’d turn down the Chosen One.”

Harry just spluttered, going beet red as Ron laughed.

Thinking back on that conversation now, Harry felt himself start to flush again. He wondered briefly if he’d passed by anyone like that in the Atrium or – Merlin forbid – in the lift, a witch or wizard who knew him, in many ways, much better than he did himself.

A short, thin wizard passed him now, presumably on the way to the lift. He muttered a hasty, “Auror Potter,” before disappearing, and Harry flashed him a quick smile.

Merlin, he felt like he was impersonating Runcorn again. He didn’t know which one was better.

Before this could make him lose his nerve, Harry finally approached familiar, oak doors. He took a steady breath, wishing now that he still had Mr. Weasley beside him.

He pushed them open.

A bustle of activity met him in the room beyond. Loud voices spilled out from several cubicles, and paper fluttered as reports and more purple memos floated through the air. People carrying high stacks of reports and colorful file folders rushed past, while one man stood still in front of a map with flashing pins, frowning intensely. On the closest cubicle, a gleaming brass plaque read, “AUROR HEADQUARTERS”.

Harry paused for a second.

A sharp laugh hit him as he passed two aurors. They were leaning over a magazine in a particularly cluttered cubicle, pointing and nudging each other. In the cubicle opposite, Harry heard angry, raised voices. Harry walked on, stumbling as a harried-looking wizard pushed past him. The man stopped to apologize profusely, his balding head shining with sweat. Harry said “It’s fine” so many times, the words seemed to warp in his mouth.

Once he finally got rid of the man, who was nearly tearing up at the end, Harry quickly walked on towards the back of the room, where Robards’ private office was supposed to be.

Someone suddenly called his name, however, and Harry couldn’t help but look over.

A witch was smiling back at him, her blond hair pulled back in a loose bun. A tall, thin wizard with a hooked nose stood by her side, scowling at Harry.

“Hullo, Harry,” she said. “Got a minute?”

“Hey, er…” Harry’s mind raced, flickering through all the flashcards that Ron and Hermione had prepared for him. “Wanda. Sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Always the busy bee, aren’t you?” Wanda said. “Well, I’d just like a word. Promise it won’t take long.”

Harry glanced down at the end of the room. “Er…”

Without waiting for Harry’s answer, Wanda turned to the scowling man next to her.

“Do you mind giving us a minute, Wilkins?” she said rather coolly.

Wilkins glanced at Harry. This one didn’t like him, Harry remembered Ron saying. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

“Fine,” Wilkins said. Grumbling, he stalked off, and Wanda gave a heavy sigh.

“Thank you,” she said. “Merlin, he’s been after me for weeks, ever since I complimented him on his new shoes. Biggest regret of my life, I tell you, other than that time I thought belly button rings were a novel idea.”

“Right,” Harry said. He smiled, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as he felt. “Er, was that all?”

Wanda laughed. “No, you idiot. I wanted to hear how you were getting on. It’s been ages since we last saw each other, yeah?”

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt. She smiled. Glancing around, she suddenly leaned closer.

“So did everything turn out all right?” she said, her voice quiet, her green eyes twinkling. “With you and that Unspeakable?”

“I, uh…” Unspeakable? The blokes who worked in the Department of Mysteries? Who…?

Harry blinked.

“Er, yeah,” he said, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Yeah, it’s – great.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “You know, for an auror, you’re complete pants at lying.” She sighed, holding her hands up. “But to each his own. Just know I’m here for you if you ever need to talk.”

Harry stared, trying to think back on what Ron told him about Wanda. She was nice, a hard worker, though Ron hadn’t mentioned them being friendly in any way. How the hell did she know about Malfoy?

Pushing this thought aside, Harry smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem,” said Wanda. “Now go on to that super important meeting of yours, or whatever it is.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He started walking off, checking his watch. He was two minutes late. “Nice seeing you!”

Wanda waved, smiling.

He passed several more cubicles, and though one or two more people waved, smiling with a “Hey, Potter!”, most seemed too busy or too tired to notice him. He saw Ron, who smiled and waved, but Harry tapped his watch, indicating he didn’t have time to chat.

He walked by a couple more cluttered cubicles until finally, he reached the office at the end of the room.

He took a breath. He knocked.

“Come in,” said Robards’ raspy voice.

Robards was a slightly pudgy, middle-aged man with a stern face and a receding hairline. His jet black hair held no trace of grey, however, and the flash in his eyes assured people that while he might not be able to run a marathon, he could still very well hex your bollocks off. He sat behind his neat desk, which had only one still picture of two smiling twins.

Harry gave a wary smile. “Hello,” he said.

“Sit,” said Robards, by way of greeting. “And close the door behind you.”

Harry closed the door, feeling as he did so a magical hush fall over the office. He sat down on a wooden chair that did nothing to make him feel more comfortable about all this.

Robards leaned forward, his face grim.

“I’ll keep this short, Potter,” he said. “First of all, I’m not completely without manners, no matter what Auror Weasley might have said about me, so I apologize for keeping you in the dark for so long after your accident. It was for your best interest, as well as for the best interests of this department.”

Harry grimaced. “Right.”

He thought he saw Robards’ lips twitch. He leaned back in his chair.

“Now, you’re probably wondering what this ‘secret mission’ is that I’ve got you on.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He shrugged. “A bit.”

“Well, before I tell you, I need your word, Potter.” Robards looked at him with stern, black eyes, the lines in his face deepening. “You can’t tell anyone about this project, not even Weasley. I realize I can’t exactly suspend you, since you’re not working anyway, but believe you me that there will be serious consequences if you breathe one word of this project to anyone.”

Harry frowned, staring back at Robards’ grim expression. He had no obligations to this man, to his department, even. Ron clearly disliked him, Harry apparently had as well, and it wasn’t like he would be working for him again anytime soon.

And yet, Harry was curious. It was one more puzzle piece in the mystery that was his past life, and that was hard to pass up, even if he had to keep it a secret.

But he was also sick of secrets. He was sick of lying. He was sick of this whole situation, to be honest.

Harry sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I mean it, Potter,” Robards said. He leaned forward on his desk, scowling. “Not one word.”

Harry struggled not to scowl back. “I won’t say anything. I swear.”

They stared at each other for a tense moment, and then Robards gave a curt nod.

“Good,” he said. His lips twitched into an almost-smile. “Now, your project. I’ll give you the basic information here, and your partner will fill you in on the details later –”

“My partner?” Harry said. He felt himself smile hopefully. “You mean Ron?”

“What?” Robards growled. “No, not Auror Weasley. Your partner for this case. He’s the reason why I roped you into it in the first place.”

Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re investigating a group of neo-Death Eaters,” Robards said. He scowled. “Don’t know if you’ve heard of them – most folks think of it as nothing more than rumormongering.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard of them. Hasn’t been in the _Prophet_ has it?”

“No.” Robards shifted in his chair, clicking his tongue. “Like I said, most people think of them as nothing but rumors. It’s more comforting that way, isn’t it? But the thing is, these rumors talk about some nasty stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Robards’ scowl deepened, turning into disgust.

“Muggle baiting of the worst kind,” he said. “Nothing flashy like burning down houses, but stuff like kidnapping homeless muggles, runaways, the like, and then using them for Merlin knows what. Stuff like manipulating muggles into ruining their own lives and driving them to madness.”

Harry felt his blood run cold. He couldn’t find anything to say, but it seemed his face spoke for him.

“This kind of violence against muggles has always been popping up here and there,” Robards said, giving a heavy sigh. “But it never came up to more than some sick bastard working on his own. Now, there’s a group of them out there somewhere, just begging for a one-way trip to Azkaban.”

“Do we know who they are?” Harry said fiercely.

“If we knew, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it, would we?” Robards said, none too kindly. “It’s what you and your partner are investigating. It was his project originally, but those damn Unspeakables couldn’t hide it from me forever. He couldn’t have handled it on his own, anyway.”

Harry stared. Unspeakables? His blood ran colder.

“Who, um.” He cleared his throat. “Who’s my partner?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Robards said. He peered at Harry with sharp eyes. “I needed someone who wouldn’t hinder the investigation just because of the kid’s background, and I decided you were the best man for the job. You testified for him at his trial, correct?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He took a deep breath. “Yeah, I did.”

Of course it was Malfoy. _Of course_.

Robards took out a brown, file folder from a drawer in his desk and handed it over to Harry.

“These are all the reports you sent me for the project, along with any notes I had,” he said. Harry opened the sealed folder, leafing through stacks of reports filled with his messy scrawl.

“Those notes include my research into your accident. From what I managed to find out, it’s pretty clear that your accident is linked to this investigation, though we still don’t know who cast the spell. Most folks say it was a witch, but accounts differ.”

Robards ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

“Anyway, that’s the extent of my involvement,” he said. “The rest of it you’ll have to hear from Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry looked up abruptly.

“Er, sorry?”

Robards didn’t seem fazed. “He’s been informed of your situation. You’ve a meeting with him in a few minutes to go over all this.”

Harry opened his mouth at this, but Robards cut him off.

“I realize you’re not a fully-fledged auror anymore, Potter,” he said. He laughed a little. “Not even close, but you have good instincts. Hell, you’ve had more practical experience now than most aurors get in a lifetime. Obliviated or not, you’ll be an asset to Mr. Malfoy.”

Robards frowned.

“But if you’d rather focus on your recovery, then by all means, go ahead. I’ll cancel the meeting with Mr. Malfoy and see you when you get your memories back.”

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s up to you.”

Harry stared. Here was Robards, offering him a chance to be involved in all this, just as he’d wanted from the beginning. Offering him answers.

But at what price? Working with Malfoy? Malfoy, the one who hated his guts for seven years, who tried to turn him over to Voldemort, the one who fell in love with him and then hated his guts again?

Merlin.

The universe was out to get him. Harry thought this as he entered the lift again. It was blessedly empty, but that didn’t mean someone out there was actively trying to make his life a living hell.

He mashed the button for level nine.

It had been exactly three days since he left Malfoy’s apartment. He told Ron and Hermione everything that had happened the day after, spreading some of the shock around. They concluded that not only was Harry seeing Malfoy behind everyone’s backs, but he had been for a while. They weren’t sure how this fit in with his “sleeping” habits, other than the tentative suggestion that Malfoy took their relationship more seriously than Harry did.

That definitely explained Malfoy’s constant anger towards him. Although, hadn’t he been on a date at the aquarium? Harry simply didn’t understand. Every time he gleaned some new information on this whole mess with Malfoy, it just brought on a billion more questions. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know the answers at this point, if it meant dealing with an irritated, upset, and magically unstable Malfoy.

Harry didn’t even bother trying to contact Malfoy this time. There was no way he wanted to see Harry, and the feeling was mutual.

Malfoy was in love with him? _Currently_ , in love with him? Not for the first time, Harry wanted to shake his past self by the shoulders and ask what the hell kind of mess he’d left him in. He didn’t know how to deal with this. When it came to romance, his track record was pretty much as bad as it got. He had settled for just ignoring the problem for now, but Robards had royally screwed that up for him.

Because now, he was standing in the Department of Mysteries, right in front of Malfoy’s office.

Harry wasted a good five minutes there, thinking over his options until his head hurt. Eventually, he sighed. What was he doing? He was a Gryffindor, wasn’t he?

Time to be brave.

Harry knocked on the door.

A pause, and then: “Come in.”

Malfoy’s office was small. Smaller, even, than the one Mr. Weasley used to have. It looked like an abandoned broom cupboard, which barely fit two chairs and one tiny desk. Stacks of paper were the only things decorating the room, other than a small family portrait by Malfoy’s elbow.

Malfoy himself didn’t look up as Harry walked in, remaining hunched over his desk. He was scribbling out some kind of report. It had a lot of complicated-looking diagrams that moved when he shook the parchment. His scratching quill was the only sound in the room.

Harry swallowed.

“Hi,” he said. “Er, Robards sent me.”

“All the information you need is in that file,” Malfoy said. He pointed briefly to a neat, blue file folder on the edge of his desk. He went back to scribbling. “Owl me with any questions.”

Harry hesitated for a second before taking the blue folder. He leafed through it, seeing memos, photos, diagrams, and reports.

He paused on a wrinkled letter.

 _Q_ , it said in his own handwriting. _Got Daffy at my place. Questioning her tomorrow at ten after midnight. – S_

Harry stared at it for a second. He glanced at Malfoy, who was still writing his increasingly dense report. He cleared his throat.

“Um, do we have codenames, by any chance?”

Malfoy’s quill paused.

“It’s all in the file,” he said. He started writing again. “If you have questions, let me know through owl. I’ll answer as fast as I can.”

“It’d be faster to ask you now.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Well, logistically, it would –“

Malfoy stopped scribbling. He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply, the weariness in his shoulders showing on his face. He looked at Harry.

“I don’t care which is faster,” he said. “Under no circumstances am I going to subject myself to your presence for more than two minutes. So get out of my office, read the file, and owl me with any questions.”

He went back to his report.

Harry stared, feeling something prickling at his chest.

Abruptly, he plopped the file folder back on Malfoy’s desk and drew the other chair back, ignoring the flash in Malfoy’s eyes. He sat down.

“I know the ‘S’ stands for ‘Starstruck’,” he said. He leaned onto the desk, pushing scraps of paper aside. “But what about ‘Q’? Does that stand for something as well?”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy said.

“And how’d you decide on the codenames?” Harry pushed. “‘Starstruck’ is a bit odd, isn’t it? I don’t think I’d ever willingly call myself that –”

“I said what the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Malfoy slammed his quill down, glaring at Harry. Up close, Harry could see that Malfoy’s stormy grey eyes were tinged with red, sleepless, and the skin underneath was stained grey-black. It was strange to think that this was the same Malfoy who had healed his fingers just a few days ago, soft with sleep and wearing his clothes. Harry flexed that hand now, remembering.

“I’m doing my job,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to be here right now either. But we’ve got to work together on this, yeah? You’re the expert on these neo-Death Eaters, and I want to find the wanker who obliviated me. I’m not going to walk out of here without at least having a proper conversation with you.”

“You’re right,” Malfoy said. He crossed his arms, his thin lips going thinner. “I am the expert. So, when I say read the file, you should get out of my office and read the bloody file.”

“You’ll meet with me after I’ve read it?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Read the file,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Harry gave him a look.

“We can talk now, can’t we?” he said.

“I would ask if being obliviated addled your brains,” Malfoy said. “But I know you’ve always been a bloody idiot. Potter, there’s no use in talking when you’ve no idea what we’re working on.”

“Robards briefed me,” Harry said quickly, glaring. The most he took from their conversation was about Malfoy – that his partner, in so many ways, was _Malfoy_ – but he wasn’t about to sit there and let the git have his way.

“Did he now?” Malfoy said, scoffing. “Then tell me, what do you think of transference as a commodity between cult-oriented Neos and low-risk muggle populations?”

Harry blinked. Transference of commodity of what between who?

“Um –”

Malfoy’s face lifted, the corner of his lips pulling up into a smug smile. “That’s what I thought,” he said. He picked up his quill. “Read the file.”

“But –”

“Owl me with any questions.” Malfoy shook out his parchment. On it, a circular maze shifted its walls. “Keep them as vague as possible and use codenames.”

“It’d be more efficient to just meet up then, wouldn’t it?” Harry said. He leaned forward on the table, half-thinking about ripping that parchment out of his hands.

Malfoy didn’t answer immediately, seemingly reading over his sodding report. He dipped his quill in a bottle of ink and started to scribble out a new sentence.

“We’re not meeting up,” he said.

“And why not?”

“Because I said so. Now get out.”

Harry scowled. Abruptly, he pushed the blue folder across the desk, knocking Malfoy’s hand aside.

“No,” he said. “We’re going to talk about this.”

Malfoy looked up at Harry, glaring. He took out his wand. Harry immediately reached for his own, but to his surprise, the hawthorn wand didn’t go anywhere near him.

Malfoy pointed it at the blue folder, which, a second later, vanished with a faint _pop_.

“There,” he said. He put his wand away. “I’ve sent it to your place. Now leave.”

Harry stared at the empty spot where the file had been. He looked at Malfoy.

“You know where I live?” he said.

Malfoy looked up at Harry. Confusion briefly crossed his face, until something flickered in his eyes. He stared for a second.

“Yes,” he said, eventually. “Your place is safer for interviews, and um.” He cleared his throat. “Investigations. But I’ll – I’ll handle that from now on, so you’ll want to modify your barriers to exclude me –”

Malfoy’s voice broke. Pain flooded his face, as if something there was breaking too. He leaned forward on his desk, covering his eyes with a slightly trembling hand.

“Fuck,” he said.

Harry sat still. Silence fell in the miniscule office, heavy and prickling, and Harry felt it in his chest, in the backs of his eyes. He stared at Malfoy.

“Er,” he said, after several seconds had passed. “Are you – are you all right?”

Malfoy breathed in sharply. Exhaled slowly.

He leaned back in his chair. He glanced briefly at Harry, those grey eyes rimmed red, and then looked back down at his desk. He picked up his quill.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Harry bit his lip. Malfoy stared blankly at his report. He thought briefly about leaving him there, but then he sighed.

“Look,” he said. “I know this is weird and – and difficult. But, if we meet up more often, it might help me get my memories back. Maybe you’ll be able to trigger something, or –”

Malfoy scoffed, his pale face twisting.

“Nothing will help get your memories back,” he said. He looked at Harry. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I specialize in broken things here at the Ministry. I know when something can’t be fixed.”

“You don’t know that.”

Malfoy’s hands clenched into fists. There was a crack as his quill broke. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “The most that anyone’s been able to recover after being obliviated is three years, and normally, people can’t dredge up more than seven months. _Seven months_ , Potter. What did you think, that you’d just suddenly wake up one day and remember everything? Because you’re so bloody special? Because you’re the Boy Who bloody Lived?”

Malfoy scoffed, his face a splotchy red and his fists bone white. “You’re not a child anymore, so get your overblown head out of your arse and face the facts. Your memories are gone. You’re not getting them back.”

Harry felt cold. Cold, and furious, and betrayed, and hurt. Blood rushing in his ears, he stood up, the back of his chair hitting the door.

“That’s fucking bullshit, Malfoy,” he said. “Think you know better than a healer, then? Better than everyone who’s been trying to help me get better since day one? You’re just being a pretentious wanker, like you’ve always been –!”

“ _I’m_ being pretentious?” Malfoy said, anger flooding his face. He stood up as well, making his desk wobble precariously. “And what the hell do you know? You’ve got the mind of a bloody eighteen-year-old!”

“I know you’ve not got a healing license!”

“And you do?”

“My healer does!”

“Great observation, Potter,” Malfoy scoffed.

“And Hermione healed her parents,” Harry said, ignoring him. “I’m betting she knows more than you about this sort of thing –”

“Are you really that naïve?” Malfoy said. He stepped closer, knocking his desk aside. Black ink stained his report as the bottle toppled over, but neither of them seemed to care.

“You’re the Saviour of the Wizarding World, for Merlin’s sake,” Malfoy said. “Bloody act like it!”

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

“It means stop being a bloody idiot, Potter!”

“Fine!” Harry said. He laughed. “Fine! I’ll stop being an idiot when you stop being an arrogant fuck!”

Malfoy shoved Harry. “Don’t act like you know me!” he said. “You don’t know the first thing about me –!”

“Yeah? How’s Lucius liking Azkaban?”

Malfoy threw his ink-soaked report at Harry, his face flushed down to his collarbones.

“Get out of my office!” he said. “Just get the _fuck_ out!”

Harry ripped the sopping wet parchment off him, his blood boiling.

“No, I’m honestly curious,” Harry said. “He’s still there isn’t he, or has he been a good little boy and gotten out early?”

Malfoy picked up his wand, white with fury, and Harry, expecting this, took out his own.

“Say one more word,” Malfoy said lowly. “And I swear you’ll be crawling out of this office, Potter.”

“Do it,” Harry said. He felt a small hole burning its way through his clothes, but he ignored it. “I dare you.”

They stared at each other, the office dead silent but for their angry breaths and the steady drip of ink falling on the floor.

“Get. Out," Malfoy said.

Harry tried not to flinch as the burn reached his skin.

“Make me."

The pain intensified. Harry twitched, but he didn’t move. His skin burned hotter and hotter. A beat passed.

Malfoy dropped his wand.

“Fuck!” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Do you seriously have brain damage or what?”

Harry grimaced, ignoring the sting on his chest. It didn’t feel any worse than the burning metal from Bellatrix’s vault.

“What about you?” Harry said. “You’re the one in love with whoever I used to be, shouldn’t you be helping me on this instead of trying to get rid of me?”

Malfoy laughed, his pained eyes bright.

“You really are an idiot,” he said. “Get out before I do something we’ll both regret.”

Harry didn’t move. “Was what you said the other night a lie then?” he said. “Has this all been some sort of elaborate prank or –”

Harry almost bit his tongue off as he suddenly went flying backwards with a sensation like being punched in the gut. Pain exploded all along his body as he flew through Malfoy’s door and out into the black-tiled hall. Harry blinked away stars, trying to breathe.

“ _Reparo_!” he heard Malfoy say.

Harry sat up just in time to see Malfoy’s furious grey eyes looking back at him. Then the last few broken pieces of wood grinded back into place, and he disappeared from view.

Harry’s body throbbed with pain. He tasted blood in his mouth. Groaning, he lay back down on the floor, staring up at the midnight blue ceiling.

That went well.


	6. Secrets to Love

_Love potions achieve their intended effects through multiple methods hitherto overlooked by scholars such as the great Herman Haffington. These nuances can have disastrous consequences when not considered properly, as love potions are by far one of the most powerful substances known to wizardkind._

“Where would you have it, then?” Hermione said. Ron’s potions essay lay abandoned on their table, Hermione’s multiple edits only reaching halfway through the three-foot long piece of parchment.

_The most common category of love potion taps into a wizard’s obsession. This is easy enough to induce even without magical aid, but with it, the user enters into a frenetic state of preoccupation with the intended target._

Ron leaned forward on his essay, wrinkling a patch of Hermione’s tiny scribbles.

“Well, I heard there’s this brilliant muggle town called Vegas,” he said.

_These types of potions often require a piece of the target, whether that be hair, saliva, a close possession, or often even blood._

“Ronald,” Hermione said, her tone withering. “We are not having our wedding in America, especially not in Las Vegas.”

_Other, more delicate, types of love potions tap into a user’s previously existing affection._

“Why not?” Ron whined. “It’d be a blast! Right, Harry?”

Harry didn’t look up from his copy of _Extremely Advanced Potion Making_. The fireplace in the Gryffindor common room crackled merrily to his right, taking just as much heed as he did to his best friends’ bickering.

“A wedding isn’t supposed to be a ‘blast’,” Hermione said, huffing.

Ron turned to Hermione, undeterred by Harry’s lack of input.

“Bill and Fleur’s was a blast!”  he said. “You know, before the whole Death Eater thing.”

“It wasn’t a _blast_ , it was touching –”

“You’re saying you didn’t have fun then?”

_Potions such as these have longer-lasting effects, even after the initial intake. Exacerbated affection can last for months, even years. The advanced potion maker must be extremely careful in its administration as well as its creation._

“Of course it was fun, but –”

“Like when I asked you to dance, remember?” Ron paused, lowering his voice. “That was the first time we ever danced together, wasn’t it?”

“The first and only time.”

“What do you mean? We’ve danced at Nightshade –”

Hermione laughed. “If you could count that as dancing.”

_Affection potions need not include any piece of the intended target since it works from the users themselves, though such ingredients can certainly heighten the effects._

“What about when we went there for my birthday? There was that slow song, remember? And after…”

Hermione made a tutting noise, but Harry didn’t need to look up to know she was blushing. He sighed.

_Other ingredients can be used to this end, such as rose petals, Ashwinder eggs…_

“I’ve always wanted to dance with you, you know. Ever since fourth year.”

_…Ashwinder eggs, powdered oyster shells…_

“Well, if you hadn’t been a complete arse, I might’ve said yes to you then.”

_Powdered oyster shells –_

“Was that the secret all along then? Just quit being an arse?”

_Oyster shells –_

“Yes, actually. Surprised it took you so long to figure out.”

_Oyster –_

Harry gave his book up as a bad job when the inevitable noises of Ron and Hermione snogging rose up by his side. They’d been like this the entire week. They were always like this, after a row. This one had been particularly nasty, lasting much too long for Harry’s liking. After enduring half a month of complaints, explanations, heated arguments, and just bad temper all around, Harry had blown up at them both. A day later, they’d magically dissolved all their issues.

Now, they were completely wrapped up in each other, which would have been fine if Harry wasn’t there as well. He would never understand romance.

Harry stuffed his hardly touched potions essay into his bag. A dull ache was beginning to form in his temples. He didn’t exactly relish the prospect of rushing to complete the paper tomorrow, but he fancied the idea of working on it now even less. Slughorn would probably give him an extension anyway.

“Are you done already?” Hermione said, her smile fading as she looked over at Harry.

Harry waved her off. “I’ll finish it up later,” he said.

“But it’s due on Monday!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hermione, it’s Saturday,” he said. “I’ll have plenty of time tomorrow.”

“But –” Hermione bit her lip. Taking in the look Harry gave her, she sighed.

“All right,” she said.

“Well, you can always copy off mine if you get in a pinch,” Ron said, grinning at Harry.

Hermione frowned. “No, he can’t.”

“Sorry,” Ron said. He covered Hermione’s ears. “I said, you can always copy off me if you want, Harry!”

“Ron!”

Harry cracked a smile at this, laughing as Hermione hit Ron with the unfortunately thick Potions textbook. Other Gryffindors trickling in from dinner looked over at this, muttering and giggling.

Harry looked over at the sound of Ginny’s ringing laughter. It died as she caught his eye.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” he said, looking away.

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” said Ron.

“Well, I’m knackered so.” Harry faked a yawn. Picking up his bag, he started to head off towards the dorms. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“See you!”

When Harry reached his dorm, it was blessedly quiet. Dropping his bag and pushing his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ off his bed, he plopped down face-first, not even bothering to change. Exhaustion crashed down on him, and it was almost peaceful. Ron and Hermione’s drama notwithstanding, he hadn’t had a full night’s rest in months, and he felt the fatigue from the backs of his eyes to the bottom of his feet.

He closed his eyes, breathing in the slightly musty room and his warm sheets.

_I saw you with him. At the quidditch pitch._

The window was still slightly open. Harry thought briefly about closing it, but the mid-November air wasn’t entirely chilly, not yet. At the very least, Harry could lie there without freezing to death from the cool, night breeze.

_Why are you bothering with him at all?_

It had been colder the other night. The night wind had whipped against his face, his hands, slapping the tiredness away, as he raced against Malfoy for a makeshift Snitch in the dark.

_Have you gone mad?!_

Harry opened his eyes. He sighed.

The distant sounds of more people returning from dinner floated up from the Common Room, puncturing the silence with laughter and raised voices. It _was_ a Saturday. Most of them would be up for a couple more hours at least, enjoying the break from a particularly difficult week.

Ginny would be among them, joking with her friends or Ron and Hermione. Maybe even pulling them into a private corner to tell them what she’d seen.

_Stay away from him. I mean it._

Harry rolled over on his bed, squeezing his eyes shut. Malfoy filled the blackness, his face triumphant as he held the ‘Snitch’ in his hand. It was a stone they’d bewitched to fly and glow green at random intervals. This made the Seeker game more based on luck than anything else, but Harry still felt that familiar rush of exhilaration whenever he managed to catch the smooth rock. He saw that same rush go through Malfoy every time he caught it as well, smiling with his cheeks flushed, his grey eyes bright.

Harry hadn’t been able to fly like that in so long. Neither had Malfoy. Their mutual excitement fed into each other, and Harry thrived on the competition, the challenge. They whooped and cheered the first time they got off the ground, racing each other around the pitch on stolen brooms. Neither of them giving a damn who heard or saw.

But this time someone had seen. _Ginny_ had seen.

Harry should say something. Malfoy would want to know, and it was better coming from him than, say, Ron. But Ginny might not tell. She knew how much Harry valued his privacy, more so than anyone, and she wasn’t a snitch.

Harry imagined what Malfoy would say, if he knew.

_I’ll kill her._

_I don’t care._

_It’s all your fault._

He stared up at the canopy of his bed.

In a way, it _was_ Harry’s fault. He’d been the one to suggest going for a round at the quidditch pitch the other week. Malfoy had been reluctant at first, for this very reason, but the prospect of flying, Harry knew, was difficult to resist. He’d actually helped Harry steal a couple of the school’s old Shooting Stars.

Breaking school rules with Malfoy, flying in the pitch with him, talking late at night, and even doing schoolwork together – all these things had become so normal for Harry. Had become something he looked forward to.

Was that so wrong?

Ron and Hermione were his best mates, but they were also a couple now. The two of them hadn’t exactly been able to date this past year, not after everything, and they deserved a bit of time with each other.

He hung out with Dean and Seamus, but it sometimes left him feeling like a third wheel, especially when conversation veered towards Dean’s apparent crush on Luna. He didn’t talk much with either Ginny or Neville anymore, and Luna herself, though a calming presence, couldn’t make him laugh like Ron or Ginny could.

So what if he’d found someone?

It was only natural. The fact that his someone was _Malfoy_ seemed, admittedly, a bit odd, but it also felt right, somehow. Unlike Ginny, Malfoy had a sharp, dry humor, but it still made Harry laugh. He didn’t smile as much, either, yet when he did, his face glowed in the same way. He was also competitive and stubborn, though prone to sulking, and oftentimes plain ridiculous.

He thought of Ginny, her sun-kissed skin and fiery hair.

She and Malfoy were like night and day, and Harry knew there was no use in comparing them.

But he wondered why he kept on doing it.

Groaning, Harry sat up. Despite his weariness, he got out of bed. He grabbed his Cloak and Map out of the trunk, pausing when his hand brushed a warm bottle. He blinked, and then remembered the party in the common room just last night. He’d opted to leave once Ron and Hermione disappeared, and Seamus, possibly taking pity on him, pushed the nearly-full bottle of firewhiskey on him.

“For a rainy day,” he’d said.

Well. Today was as good a day as any.

It had actually started to rain outside, which was just as well. Harry didn’t feel like risking another trip down to the pitch anytime soon, especially not tonight. He pulled the Cloak tighter around himself as the night’s chill slowly started to creep into the castle.

He cast a shoddy Temperature Charm once he got to the Astronomy Tower, wishing he’d thought bring an actual cloak. A quick Tempus told him it was only half past eight.

Malfoy wouldn’t be by with a proper warming charm for another five hours at least. It was stupid of him to come so early, but Harry couldn’t stand another night of tossing and turning, of sleeping and then not sleeping, listening to the distant sounds of his fellow Gryffindors.

He sat down by the lip of the opening, setting the bottle of firewhiskey down beside him. He watched as light, chilly rain fell just inches away from him.

_Tell him_ , it seemed to say. _Just tell him and get it over with_.

But if Malfoy was his someone, was it worth the risk?

“Potter?”

Startled, Harry got up, looking around.

Malfoy stood by the staircase, wearing his school robes and a look of mild surprise. He seemed less approachable this way, not the Malfoy of countless, comfortable nights together, but the one who sat silently in class, taking notes diligently. Not looking at Harry.

“Malfoy?” Harry said. His breaths came quicker.

_What should I say?_

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy said. His shoes clacked against the stone floor as he came closer, the sound seeming too loud here, in this place.

“The usual, I suppose,” said Harry.

After a moment’s hesitation, he sat back down. Malfoy sat down next to him, and it was weird, thinking that after almost three months, this was the first time they’d exchanged even two words before midnight. It was as if, with Ginny finding out, a crack had formed in the unspoken barrier they usually kept between night and day. Another wall coming down.

Malfoy eyed the bottle of firewhiskey.

“Are they serving these at dinner now then?” he said.

Harry blinked. He glanced at the bottle and then at Malfoy.

“Yes, actually,” he said. “For the stress.”

Malfoy hummed. His lips twitched.

“I see,” he said. “I suppose that makes sense. Is that why you’re here so early? Didn’t want anyone to see you taking seconds?”

Harry gave Malfoy a small smile. He looked back out at the misty rain.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“I was under the impression that you didn’t sleep, Potter.”

Harry laughed. “What about you?” he said. He looked at Malfoy. “Why’re you here so early?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, the mocking look somehow calming, instead of irritating.

“I heard they were serving firewhiskey in the Great Hall,” he said. “Obviously, I had to come see for myself.”

Harry felt himself grinning. It was difficult to focus on Ginny then, on all the hurt she could bring. That was before and after. This was now.

Malfoy gestured to the bottle.

“May I?” he said.

Harry shrugged.

“Go ahead.”

Malfoy deftly conjured two glass cups. He handed one to Harry, who rolled his eyes. They could have just drunk straight from the bottle, but Malfoy was, of course, too good for that.

“Cheers,” Harry said, lifting his glass.

Malfoy clinked his cup against Harry’s, smiling.

“Cheers.”

Three hours later, they had refilled the bottle twice. Harry could barely sit up straight. They’d abandoned the cups in favor of drinking straight from the source, and that seemed funny somehow. In fact, a lot of things seemed funny, from his fingers to the way Malfoy’s robes were hanging off of him.

They were sitting back to back, talking about the probabilities of the Chudley Canons placing anything _other_ than dead last in the upcoming quidditch season. Harry could barely hear himself over the downpour beside them and the buzzing in his own ears. Yet Malfoy’s voice seemed oddly clear.

Silence fell for a second, and Harry closed his eyes. He felt plenty warm already from the firewhiskey, but Malfoy’s heat against his back was warmth of a different kind – comforting, familiar. Harry turned his head slightly, and he smiled at Malfoy’s scent. He smelled a bit like a sharp flower, a thorny rose. Maybe it was the firewhiskey.

Malfoy shifted, groaning.

“Potter,” he slurred. “’M hungry.”

Harry thought for a second. His stomach growled as if in response.

“Me too,” he said.

“Less get something to eat.”

“Yeah.”

“Kitchens.”

“Yeah.”

“Cloak?”

“’M fine.”

“What?”

“I said ‘m fine.” Harry shifted against Malfoy. “You’re warm.”

“What –?”

Malfoy laughed. Turning, he faced Harry, his cheeks flushed and eyes dazed with alcohol. The sudden loss of contact made Harry grumble. They each tried to focus.

“Your _invisible_ cloak,” Malfoy said.

“My what?”

“Your –” Malfoy frowned, gesturing at empty air. “Your invincible cloak!”

“Invincible?”

“ _Invisible_.”

Harry laughed, pointing at Malfoy. “You said invincible!”

“Fuck you!”

Malfoy shoved Harry’s hand away, but Harry still grinned.

“You’re _hilarious_.”

“I know.” Malfoy hiccupped. “I know ‘m funny, but your cloak! Your cloak, Potter!”

“I said, I’m fine!”

Harry huffed, and, leaning forward, he slung an arm around Malfoy, or tried to. Malfoy leaned back, struggling to push Harry off, but they just fell back in an uncoordinated heap, Harry holding tight onto Malfoy.

“Potter,” he whined. “Gerroff!”

Harry held on tighter. “Mm. You’re warm.”

Malfoy gave up. He laughed, and the sound was infectious. Malfoy – his voice, his warmth, his smell – was infectious.

Harry didn’t want to let go.

Malfoy started to card his fingers through Harry’s hair, the motion gentle, soothing. A few seconds, or several minutes, of calm quiet passed like that, Malfoy’s heartbeat steady under Harry’s ear, his fingers rhythmic.

“Potter,” he said, breaking the silence. Harry hummed in response, his eyes closed.

“Why’re you really here early?”

Harry frowned. Right. They’d come to the Tower early tonight, for some reason. There had been a reason, hadn’t there?

Ginny. Yes. Ginny had been the reason. She knew about them, about whatever _them_ was. He was going to tell Malfoy. Or wasn’t he?

“Why were _you_ here early?” he said.

Malfoy paused.

“I asked first.”

Harry couldn’t help grinning at this.

“I asked second.”

Malfoy sighed. “Shut up, Potter. You _know_ that’s not how it works.”

Reluctantly, Harry got off Malfoy, scooting up so that they were lying side by side, face to face. Malfoy’s hair was disheveled, as if from sleep, and his cheeks were still ruddy with alcohol. And yet, his grey eyes flickered with the rain’s silver light, ethereal in the dark. Harry felt drawn to them. For a second, he forgot what he was about to say.

Malfoy broke his reverie.

“I’m not telling if you won’t,” he said, frowning.

Harry blinked. They’d been arguing. Right. He stared at Malfoy. Was he going to tell? Should he tell? It couldn’t be too bad, could it? That whole thing with Ginny. It seemed so far away from all this, from them. Right here. Right now.

“I will,” he said, finally. He held up a pinky finger. “I pinky promise.”

Malfoy glanced down at Harry’s finger, his frown deepening.

“What?”

“I _pinky_ promise.” Harry wiggled his pinky finger. “Come off it, you can’t’ve _never_ done a pinky promise before?”

“No,” Malfoy said. He stared suspiciously at Harry’s finger. “Is it like an Unbreakable Vow?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, it’s not magic. It’s just –”

Harry took Malfoy’s hand, molding it into a fist with one, slim pinky sticking out. Harry curled his own pinky around it.

“See?” he said. “Now it’s not just a promise. It’s a _pinky_ promise.”

Malfoy curled his finger tighter around Harry’s, like a tiny snake.

“Does it _do_ anything?” he said, brows furrowed.

Harry quirked an eyebrow back. “Yeah,” he said. “I have to keep my promise now.”

Malfoy glanced down at their hands. He looked back at Harry.

“I don’t understand.”

Harry laughed. Feeling bold, feeling close, he shifted his hand and threaded his fingers through Malfoy’s. They were calloused like the quidditch player he was, though slim like a piano player’s. Warm like a lover.

“Tell me your reason, and I’ll tell you mine,” Harry said. He rubbed his thumb over the back of Malfoy’s hand. “Promise.”

Malfoy was quiet for a moment. His eyes were lidded, as though tired. In fact, Harry knew he was, not just by the permanent grey-black stains underneath his eyes, but because that was them. They were always tired – of their past, their future, their people. Of everything but this.

They’d also downed a fuck ton of firewhiskey.

That didn’t help.

Malfoy squeezed Harry’s hand.

“You promise?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Harry said, whispering too. He liked knowing secrets. He remembered having to spend a month making Polyjuice Potion just to know Malfoy’s secrets. Maybe they should’ve tried using firewhiskey instead.

Malfoy looked back at Harry, his dazed eyes worried.

“I was early ‘cause I didn’t wanna fuck Blaise,” he said.

Harry froze.

“ _What?_ ”

“You know, Zabini, he’s in our year –”

“No, I – I know Blaise, er, Zabini, but… _what?_ ”

“Oh, well, he came by today. With Pansy.”

Malfoy brought up a hand, wiggling it a little. “Surprise!” He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t want to see them though. ‘Specially Blaise. The fucking prat.”

“But –” Harry screwed his eyes, trying to think through the sludge that was his brain. His head hurt. “Why would you… _fuck_ Zabini?”

Malfoy’s closed his eyes, as if he were about to fall asleep.

“Dunno,” he said, sighing. “Feels good.”

“But he’s a bloke?”

Malfoy peeked an eye open.

“ _I’m_ a bloke.”

Harry stared, his head giving a nasty throb. “Er, yeah?” he said. “That’s the problem?”

“Yeah,” Malfoy said, closing his eyes again. “That’s the problem.”

“But, Malfoy, are – are you gay?”

Malfoy flung his eyes open, scowling.

“No,” he said. “Are you?”

“I, er –”

Harry stared. He remembered a night eerily like this, his head buzzed with too much to drink and loud music in his ears. He remembered a man’s firm arms around him and his slick taste in his mouth.

“I…don’t know.”

Malfoy stilled. Shock flickered across his face.

“What?”

Harry sighed sharply. “I don’t know, all right? I don’t really care.”

“How do you not care?”

Harry threw up his hands, detangling them from Malfoy’s. He turned to face the ceiling. Out of all the discussions they could be having, Harry had the luck to drunkenly stumble into this one.

Fucking hell.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He screwed his eyes shut. “I’ve never loved a bloke like I did Ginny.”

Malfoy scoffed, making Harry look around.

“What?”

Malfoy was still facing him. Meeting Harry’s eyes, he snorted and then got up.

“It’s not about _love_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s about sex.”

Harry stared. He felt a man’s hands on him again, in his hair, on his arse, breaths harsh on his lips.

“I’ve snogged a bloke before,” he said.

Malfoy nodded sagely, as if he’d expected Harry’s reply.

“Doesn’t count,” he said.

“What?”

Harry got up as well, feeling a spark of familiar anger.

“What d’you mean?”

“So you’ve snogged a bloke once,” Malfoy said. He waved a hand, waving away the incident that’d been lingering in the back of Harry’s mind for almost a year. “So what?”

“So what?!” Harry said, staring. “So if – if –” he gestured wildly between them, “if we snogged, it wouldn’t mean anything? It’d just be –“ he threw his hands up, “So what?”

Malfoy blinked.

“Exactly.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t believe you.”

Malfoy laughed. “What?”

“I’m saying,” Harry glared. “I don’t believe you!”

Malfoy glared right back. “Then kiss me,” he said.

“What?”

“Come on,” Malfoy said. He leaned closer. “Kiss me. I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not going to kiss you!”

“Just do it.” Malfoy laughed, his lips curled into a sneer. “What, are you scared?”

Harry felt his blood boil.

“You wish.”

Malfoy was completely wrong, and Harry was completely right, as usual. They were just inches apart, furious, and fuck if he wasn’t going to prove his point. Without thinking about anything else, about whether this all even made sense or not, Harry closed the distance.

Malfoy’s lips were soft, slightly chapped. They felt charged, somehow – full, sensitive, and dry until Harry wet them with swipes of his tongue. He tasted like the smoky cinnamon of firewhiskey. Of salt and something sweet.

He forgot what they were arguing about.

Instead, Harry kissed Malfoy, pushing forward until Malfoy gave up and lay down on the stone floor. Malfoy wrapped his arms around Harry, his fingers burying into Harry’s hair again, exhilarating this time, instead of soothing.

“Potter,” Malfoy gasped, when Harry left his mouth to taste more of him, his neck, his jutting collarbone.

“Potter, I was right, right? I was right…”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered absently.

He moved back to Malfoy’s lips, magnetized by them. His hands roamed Malfoy’s body, toned from quidditch – a bit malnourished but sex incarnate from way it moved, from the way it felt beneath Harry, beneath his fingers that pushed against silk skin and rough scars.

“I was right,” Malfoy said. His laughter died on Harry’s lips.

Harry pushed Malfoy’s shirt all the way off. Malfoy tugged Harry’s off in turn, and then Malfoy was sucking on his tongue, tugging on his hair, raking his nails down Harry’s back.

“You were right, Malfoy.”

Their skin was warm against each other, burning. Harry trembled at the touch.

“You were right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot of finagling, but I hope it turned out all right! Let me know what you think! Also, wow, can they hold their alcohol. Let's go with that.


	7. Antipasto

A year ago, Malfoy got assigned a project at the Department of Mysteries. Someone had passed it down to him after several months of the at best, sketchy, investigation of the at best, sketchy subject matter.

Neo-Death Eaters.

Early research showed little to no indication of their existence. Malfoy, and then shortly after, Harry _and_ Malfoy, sniffed around reported sightings, leafed through local newspapers – muggle and magical – watched hours of muggle news footage, asked around at high-risk muggle populations (referring to those who had a _high risk_ of getting captured or killed: the homeless, the poor), and met up either at Harry’s or Malfoy’s to compare notes and look for patterns.

They found none.

At least, not until Daffy. Daffy, aka Diedre no last name, was an elderly woman with a thousand wrinkles and sea-green eyes. She was a homeless muggle who’d approached him and Malfoy, taking them for muggle police, Scotland Yard perhaps.

It was about her grand-daughter. A little younger than them, meek but kind, she’d gone missing a couple weeks ago. This wasn’t an entirely new story. They dismissed it at first, but then she went on.

The other day, she saw her grand-daughter. She was on the arm of a wealthy-looking man, dolled up as to make her almost unrecognizable. Diedre couldn’t help it. She approached them. She said it was most definitely Hannah, but the girl made no indication that she knew Diedre.

Diedre made a bit of a scene, and the man threatened to call the police. Hannah did nothing.

It was as if, Diedre said, she’d been bewitched.

Harry looked into it. Malfoy was more skeptical, but they had nothing better to go on. They scoped the place, the people in the place, coming up with nothing.

Diedre went missing a week later.

They looked into the activities of wealthy muggles, specifically men. They looked into wealthy wizards, most of them pureblood. Malfoy did most of the asking around there, which, Harry gathered from his reports, Harry himself didn’t entirely approve of.

However, they did learn of whispers about the ‘muggle trade’, tentatively linked with ‘Neos’, or Neo-Death Eaters. Malfoy dug further. Eventually, a witch named Melinda Resin offered him an in. He accepted.

The next day, a muggle girl was sent to a nondescript hotel in London. Her name was Katie, a pretty young woman with black hair and doleful, brown eyes. Harry and Malfoy eagerly sat her down for an interview.

Just minutes in, however, her skin started to crack and blister as if burned, and just before she passed out, lines carved itself into her shiny, red forearm. It said:

“Nice try.”

They healed her as best they could and admitted her to St. Mungo’s. When they came back the next day, she was gone.

Malfoy met up with Ms. Resin again. He found out, through means not reported, that ‘The Club’, or ‘cult’ as he liked to call it, sent requests in through letters addressed to ‘The X Society’, which, when Vanished, assumedly reached whoever was behind the sick operation.

They spent weeks investigating Vanishing spells as well as The Cult. The rest of the file was filled with their findings, theories, and more botched interviews, though none as bad as Katie’s.

That was it.

Harry leaned back in his chair, hand itching towards his empty cup of coffee.

He sighed.

He’d been poring over painstaking weeks and months of clear frustration, horror, anger, and disappointment, and it was worse than looking through his so-called memories. Those, at least, had been largely happy.

Neo-Death Eaters and everything about them were decidedly _not_ happy.

It was exciting, in a way, to be a part of something that could theoretically save so many lives, but their investigations seemed only to lead to more hurt, more disappointments.

They didn’t even know if there was any real basis to the rumors of Neos manipulating low-risk muggles, meaning the rich and well-fed. Malfoy was intrigued by the idea of Black Magic cults among muggles, and he reckoned that Neos could take advantage of this to lure in low-risk muggles. For money, for game.

Harry had tried to explain that ‘Black Magic’ cults were little more than rumors, nothing more than a gothic phase for teenagers. Malfoy pointed out that most people thought the same of Neo-Death Eaters.

Harry didn’t know how to argue against Malfoy then, and he didn’t know now. He’d been obliviated, for Merlin’s sake. Reading reports and memos, the one letter Harry sent to Malfoy – others, he supposed, had been disposed of – they didn’t really tell him what it’d been like, working with Malfoy, seeing and living in that frustration and uncertainty.

Harry picked the letter up again from the mass of parchment before him.

 _Q_ ,

_Got Daffy at my place. Questioning her tomorrow at ten after midnight._

_– S_

‘Ten after midnight’ apparently meant ‘as soon as possible’. ‘Five after midnight’ was code for ‘at your earliest convenience’. That meant Malfoy’s letter over a month ago had actually been asking Harry to come over when he had the time. What for, Harry only had his best guess.

Apparently, Malfoy’s codename, ‘Q’ stood for ‘Queen’. How that had come about he burned to know, just as much as he wanted to know why he was ‘Starstruck’, but no explanation was given in the file.

Harry turned the letter over. There was a doodle of a star wearing a crown. It repeatedly hit a stick figure over the head until the stick figure fell down. The picture stuck out like a sore thumb from all the serious scribbles and moving images around it. He wondered if Malfoy had kept it intentionally, or if he’d stuck it in this damned folder one day and just forgot.

Harry didn’t know, but he felt like Malfoy wasn’t the type to _just forget_. His notes were as meticulous as Hermione’s, and his sharp, pointed face didn’t seem to allow room for ‘just’ anything.

Harry thought of Malfoy’s contorted face, crying at him to leave, of his tear-stained face, tortured at just the sight of him, of his tired face, gaunt with too many sleepless nights.

He was still human.

Harry shook his head.

He should stop thinking about Malfoy. He didn’t want to see Harry, much less help him, and maybe they were both better off that way. They’d always been better off that way, as far as he remembered.

And yet, they were still partners. Obliviated or not, this was Harry’s job. He could only get so much from a bunch of parchment, and if Malfoy somehow helped to get his memories back, it could help the investigation.

So, he should push for it, shouldn’t he?

Malfoy’s furious face rose up again in his mind, the force of his spell, the force of his words.

Harry sighed.

Grabbing his empty mug, he got up. He threw out the cold coffee and started a new pot. The ancient machine whirred behind him.

Harry wished he could ask Ron and Hermione for help, at least with the whole Malfoy mess, but they had their own problems to deal with.

He hadn’t known until Ron suddenly dropped by the other night, his eyes rimmed red and a toothbrush in his hand.

“Mind letting me kip here for the night?” he said. His voice shook.

Harry started from his chair, where he’d spent the past hour reading report after report of _dead end, no change, nothing new_.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”

Harry made Ron a strong cup of tea and put his toothbrush in the upstairs bathroom. When he got back to the kitchen, Ron hadn’t even touched his drink. Harry sat down across from him, his own mug of watery tea in hand. 

They sat there in silence for several minutes, sipping occasionally at their mugs.

“We didn’t want to bother you with this, you know,” Ron said, finally. He was staring at his tea. “What with everything going on.”

Harry stared. He felt like a bad friend, suddenly. Here was Ron, his best mate, looking as if he’d gone through the Battle of Hogwarts all over again, and Harry had no idea why. He hadn’t even noticed anything wrong between Ron and Hermione, though he supposed he hadn’t been looking. He’d been so caught up in stuff like Ginny. Neos. Malfoy.

Harry tried a half-smile.

“With what going on?” he said. “My work? Or you mean my brilliant social life?”

Ron looked at Harry. He gave a tentative smile back.

“I know everything’s not exactly ideal for me at the moment,” Harry said, after a pause. “But you can go ahead and bother me if you like. It’s all right. Really.”

Ron hesitated, and then he sighed. He drank some more of his tea. He stared at the table for a few seconds, and then looked back at Harry.

“We want to start a family,” he said.

They’d been trying forever, but after four years and a miscarriage, it was starting to look impossible. They researched both magical and non-magical methods that could help, asked Healers and doctors, asked family and friends, but no matter what they did, the outcome never changed.

Ron was even scared to get Hermione pregnant again, afraid of another miscarriage. They’d been eight weeks in and even got to hear the baby’s heartbeat. The loss was devastating. To Hermione especially, and neither of them wanted to go through that again.

The stress from her work didn’t help. “They think she’s some kind of superhuman,” Ron said, referring to the people at Mysteries. “And I know she’s brilliant, but it’s not healthy, the way they make her go on like that.”

That’s what they’d fought about this time. Ron had insisted she take a break from work, Hermione had insisted her work was too important. The issue of children, or lack thereof, bled into the argument, as it usually did nowadays, and he’d said some regrettable things.

Ron fell quiet. He rubbed at his eyes.

“I’m sorry, mate,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “I am too.”

Harry stared at the dregs of his tea.

“I think she’d want to know that,” he said. He looked at Ron. “You know, that you’re sorry.”

“She already knows we’re in a sorry state. No use in me pointing it out.”

“I mean…” Harry sighed. He ran a hand through his hair. “I meant that you should talk it out with her. I reckon it’s just one of those things, you know?”

Ron snorted softly. “Easier said than done, mate.”

“Can’t hurt to try, can it?”

Ron looked at Harry, his blue eyes pained but not watery anymore. Just tired.

“Can’t it?”

Harry didn’t know what to say to this. They fell back into silence, sipping at their tea.

“Want another?” Harry said, once Ron finished his.

Ron just shook his head. Taking both their mugs, Harry got up to put them in the sink.

“You know,” Ron said, making him pause. Harry looked back questioningly. “She threw that toothbrush at me as I was getting in the Floo. Said to make sure I brushed my teeth before going to bed. She knows I forget sometimes.”

His lips twitched.

“Nearly poked my eye out.”

Harry gave a small smile. He put away the mugs, thinking he’d wash them in the morning.

“You can pick any of the rooms to sleep in,” he said. He gestured vaguely to the rest of the house. “I suppose they’re all guest bedrooms now.”

Ron got up and flashed Harry a quick, appreciative smile. “Thanks, mate.”

“Anytime. Oh, and Ron?”

Ron had started to leave, probably for that bedroom on the first floor. He looked back.

“Yeah?”

“You should talk to her,” Harry said.

Ron stared for a second, then relaxed. He smiled wearily.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. ‘Night, Harry.”

“’Night.”

Harry stared at his fresh cup of coffee. The mug was warm in his hands, the smell revitalizing. Ron had left that morning, promising he’d patch things up with Hermione. Harry had wished him the best of luck.

Harry took a sip of his coffee. It was still burning hot.

Should he visit later to see how it went?

He supposed they would come by eventually and let him know. One way or another. Anyway, he still had a few reports to read over, though he didn’t know how much more they could reveal.

Again, Harry thought about visiting Malfoy.

_Can’t hurt to try, can it?_

Malfoy screamed at him to get out again, Malfoy burned Harry with his wand again.

_Can’t it?_

Could it? Harry supposed it could. Between him and Malfoy, all there seemed to be was pain. Pain and anger and sadness.

But then why had they gotten together? What was he missing?

 _You should talk it out_.

Harry grit his teeth. He put his coffee down, abandoning the pile of parchment on the kitchen table (gladly). He Summoned a traveling cloak and stepped out of Grimmauld Place, into the twinkling night.

When had it gotten so dark?

Harry shook his head. He twisted on the spot and apparated.

He appeared just on the outskirts of Malfoy’s neighborhood. Taking a deep breath, he started walking.

It was quiet. Every now and then, a car passed lazily down the street, and a few people ambled by. The night air was calm, peaceful even. The London fug masked the stars above, but the streetlights themselves seemed like stars, glowing brightly against the gloom. Harry could imagine himself here, making a late-night run for something – groceries, maybe – or just taking a leisurely walk.

He took the time to think. What would he say to Malfoy, when he got there? What should he say? What should he do? Nothing seemed right. It all seemed to end with him being kicked or shoved out of his apartment.

How had they ever gotten together?

This question hung above him like cigarette smoke, tainting the air he breathed. He couldn’t help but obsess a bit. Sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. It’s what he did best, wasn’t it?

Maybe they’d gotten together after a quidditch game, like he’d done with Ginny. Fisticuffs gone awry. But he hadn’t been on the team Eighth Year, and neither had Malfoy. Harry didn’t know _what_ Malfoy had done in Eighth Year, other than get together with him.

Maybe they’d had detention together. Maybe they’d been Potions partners. Maybe Malfoy had slipped him something.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Harry finally made it to apartment building 104, number 21. He still didn’t know what to say.

He knocked.

Harry waited a few seconds before knocking again.

Waiting. Knocking.

Waiting. Knocking.

“Malfoy?” he said. “Malfoy, would you please open the door?”

Waiting. Knocking.

“Just open the door!”

Knocking.

“Come on, Malfoy, talk to me. Are you going to ignore me then?”

Pounding.

“Open the door, I just want to talk! Malfoy, open the bloody –!”

The door groaned open.

Malfoy glared back at him.

“Get the fuck out of here before I call the police,” he said.

“Just hear me out,” Harry said quickly. “I’ll be gone before you know it, all right? And if you still don’t want to see me after that, then fine. I’ll be out of your hair for good. Just listen to what I’ve got to say.”

Malfoy hesitated, his lips so thin they were near-invisible.

“Please,” Harry said.

Malfoy scowled.

“No.”

He moved to close the door, but Harry stuck his hand out, blocking it.

“Please,” he said. “Please, Malfoy, just hear me out.”

“Move your hand, Potter!”

Harry didn’t move.

“Draco,” he said. “Please.”

Malfoy seemed to freeze. He stared back at Harry for a long moment. Harry wished he could tell what exactly was going on behind that pale, pointed face, but it was unreadable.

Malfoy sighed.

“Move your hand,” he said, quietly.

Harry, relieved, moved his hand from the door.

“Thank –”

Malfoy quickly slammed the door shut. Harry heard the lock click audibly on the other side.

“Wanker!” he called out. He kicked the door, but all that got him was a complaint from Malfoy’s neighbor and a sharp burst of pain in his toes.

He went back the next day. Malfoy was just as welcoming, this time threatening to call Hermione on him. The day after that, Malfoy threatened to kill him. The day after that, Malfoy didn’t even bother to open his door. The day after that, Malfoy’s middle-aged neighbor threatened to report them both for disturbing the peace. The day after that, Harry quit making so much noise and just kipped outside Malfoy’s door. It was like the Room of Requirement all over again, he thought bitterly. He wondered if this counted as him being obsessed.

But there was nothing else for it, was there?

Malfoy gave in a week and a half later. Harry was dozing against Malfoy’s door, waiting for him to either come home or leave – even after a week, he couldn’t get a handle on the git’s schedule – when someone abruptly kicked him awake.

“I’m getting a restraining order,” Malfoy said, by way of greeting.

Harry rubbed his leg, glaring.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d just talk to me.”

“Then talk.”

Malfoy unlocked his apartment and walked in, leaving the door open behind him.

Harry stared. Gathering his wits, he quickly scrambled to his feet and walked in after Malfoy. He closed the door behind him. Finally, after a week and a half, he was on the other side. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good.

Malfoy’s apartment looked just the same as it had when he was there last, about two weeks ago. Except, now it was only late afternoon, near evening, His clear, sliding doors faced west, and the setting sun bled through the cracks in the blinds, softening the room to a red-orange hue.

Malfoy glared at Harry from the counter, the dark hallway behind him, his arms crossed.

“You have two minutes,” he said.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but looking again at Malfoy’s face, thought better of it. He took a sharp breath. He had no idea where to start.

“So –”

His voice came out scratchy, hoarse with disuse. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. Feeling flushed, he cleared his throat.

“Er, I thought about what you said the last time we saw each other,” he said. “You know, about the recovery rate of people who’ve been obliviated. Hermione and I looked a bit more into it, and – and it depends on a lot of things.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. Harry cleared his throat again.

“How cleanly you were obliviated for one,” he said. “The wanker who cast it on me did a nice job, turns out. It also depends on how much you’ve forgotten, and seven years isn’t too bad all things considered. It depends on how quickly you start treatment as well. I started almost right after, so that’s another point in my favor. And you know, most people recover only seven months because most people lose only up to a year’s worth of memories. There’s just been three cases in the last, er, the last – right, fifty years of people who’ve lost more than a year, and that’s Lockhart, me, and some bloke named Robert – Robert…”

“Wright,” Malfoy supplied quietly.

“Yeah, him.”

Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, risking a smile. Malfoy looked back stonily.

“Yeah, so,” he said. “The fact is, recovery rate depends on the person. No one knows how this will turn out for me, if I’ll be like Lockhart and not remember anything, or Wright and remember only some things. Or I could just be me and remember all of it. There’s just no way of telling.”

Malfoy said nothing. Harry took a deep breath.

“Look, I know this is hard,” he said. “You probably don’t even know what to think of me. I don’t even know what to think of me half the time, but you’ve lost someone important to you, in a way, and I know what that’s like. It feels like – like the world isn’t the same anymore. Like things are less happy or less good, or just less – everything, because he’s not there. And you wonder how you can go on. You think you’d do anything just to talk to him one more time, but you know you can’t.”

Harry paused. He blinked, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“More than anything, you shouldn’t go through this alone. And I know it might hurt, being with me and not knowing if I’ll ever get my memories back, but we have to try. Even if it’s just three years or seven months, we have to try. And I know you’re the key to that. I’m not sure what we were to each other, what we are, even, but I know there’s something here. And I can’t let that go.”

Harry took a cautious step closer. He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he took Malfoy’s hand. It felt warm in his own, familiar.

“So, please,” he said. “Just give it a chance.”

Malfoy looked searchingly at Harry. He didn’t let go.

The apartment was bathed in shafts of sunset now, and the flickers of orange and shadow played across Malfoy’s face. It made him seem even more unreadable, impossibly distant, though Harry could feel his calloused fingers in his own.

“Have you read everything in the folder?”

Harry blinked.

“What?”

Malfoy tugged his hand out of Harry’s.

“If you haven’t, then finish that first.” Malfoy turned away, flicking on the kitchen light. “If you have, then make yourself comfortable. We should discuss our next course of action as soon as possible. Have you had dinner?”

Harry curled his fingers around empty air, staring back at Malfoy.

“Er, no,” he said, a bit belatedly. “I haven’t.”

“No, you haven’t had dinner, or no, you haven’t finished the folder?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I mean, no – I’ve – I’ve finished the folder.”

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow, in the kitchen now.

“And dinner?”

“Haven’t had it yet,” Harry said. “Why, are you offering?”

He could have sworn he saw Malfoy’s lips twitch.

“Depends,” he said. “How do you feel about pasta?”

Harry grinned. Relief washed over him, and he felt like he could have eaten an entire Hogwarts feast.

"Sounds good," he said.


	8. Alone

Waking up hurt. His back, his head, his stomach, even his fucking mouth – all of it hurt. Harry groaned.

Where was he?

It was bone cold, the floor hard against his back. The air smelled like fresh rain. He shivered and searched instinctively for some kind of cover, but his fingers met only damp stone.

The Astronomy Tower. He was in the bloody Astronomy Tower.

Shock ran through him, and Harry abruptly sat up. A wave of nausea roiled his stomach, and his head gave a nasty throb. Harry tried to blink away the pain.

Fuck Seamus. He was never going to so much as _touch_ a bottle of alcohol again.

“Malfoy?” he croaked out.

Silence.

The sky was greying, headed towards dawn, and remnants of the night’s downpour dripped softly just out of sight. Birds chirped their morning songs. Owls swooped by silently.

Harry didn’t need to search for his glasses to know what that meant.

Malfoy was gone.

 

“You all right, mate?”

Harry looked up from his glass of pumpkin juice. They were in the kitchens. It was a bleak Monday morning with cloudy skies, and Harry hadn’t felt up to braving the Great Hall today. it wasn’t worth going just for the slim chance Malfoy might be there. He already knew the git somehow survived without it.

His head hurt.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Ron shared a glance with Hermione, but neither of them said anything.

“So, did you manage to finish that essay for Slughorn?” Ron said, getting back to his sausage and eggs.

Harry’s head throbbed.

“No.”

Ron nodded sympathetically.

“Yeah, I’m still working through Hermione’s edits. Can’t believe I spelled ‘there’ wrong ten different times…”

“Wait, you haven’t finished?” Hermione said to Ron. “You told me you were done!”

“Well, we still have time –”

“It’s due today. Ron, you always do this –!”

Harry pushed the remains of his scrambled eggs around on his plate, letting Ron and Hermione’s bickering wash over him. He felt slightly ill.

Malfoy wasn’t there last night.

This wasn’t entirely unusual. Over the three months since they’d started this, Malfoy had been absent a couple of times, and so had Harry. It wasn’t like they met every single night, and it wasn’t like Malfoy had to let him know if he wasn’t going to be there. It wasn’t like Harry had any reason to worry.

Except for Saturday.

Harry poked at his eggs. He didn’t want to think about it. He shouldn’t. They were pissed, it was in the heat of the moment. A mistake. Yet he kept playing that mistake over and over again in the back of his head, like an old cinema reel that refused to have an off button.

Malfoy’s slick lips against his – soft, insistent, skilled. Harry’s name, his first name, slipping out when he dipped his fingers under those posh nighties, Malfoy’s voice just warm breaths that smelled like heat and cinnamon.

“Draco,” he had said back, kissing him, touching him. “Draco –”

“Harry!”

Harry blinked. Ron and Hermione were staring back, concern etched all over their faces.

“Reckon we should get a move on to Charms, yeah?” Ron said. He glanced down at Harry’s mangled breakfast.

Harry pushed it away from him. “Yeah,” he said. He gathered his bag. “Let’s go.”

His head hurt.

He couldn’t figure out what it all meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. All he wanted was for things to be the same. For Malfoy to be there when he wanted to complain about his Potions essay or to fly with him in the dead of night. It didn’t have to change, did it? Just because they snogged (and stuff) one time?

They settled down in the back of the class. Flitwick asked them to take out their copies of _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_ , his squeaky voice cutting across Hermione’s renewed efforts to find out about his nighttime activities.

Harry stared blankly at his textbook.

He didn’t remember much else from their rambling conversations Saturday, other than telling Malfoy about Nightshade. How exactly they’d jumped from that to snogging each other senseless, Harry had no idea. But his bruised lips and crusted trousers assured him that what he remembered had been so much more than some disturbed dream. Those, and his random hickeys.

Malfoy was a biter, apparently.

Harry self-consciously rubbed his neck, though he’d already healed the telling, red mark. Ron had torn the mickey out of him when he saw – both him and Hermione, in their own ways, asking where (or who) the hell he’d gotten it from. Harry played it off as a rash and stuck to it.

“Finally got someone to scratch that itch then, have you?” Ron had said, chortling.

Harry ignored him.

He was never going to drink again. Right after he killed Seamus for giving him the bottle in the first place.

He exhaled sharply. Hermione glanced his way.

Harry had thought about telling her. She’d always been better than him with the whole feelings business, after all – certainly better than Ron. She might have some sort of insight into the whole mess.

But something stopped him.

Harry might not be the best at guessing other people’ feelings, but he knew Malfoy. If he found out that Harry had told Hermione – or anyone – that he wasn’t exactly as straight as the Chudley Cannons’ losing streak for the past fifty years, he would be sending an Unforgivable Harry’s way faster than he could say ‘probation’.

Harry hadn’t even told him about Ginny yet. Merlin.

He gloomily put his textbook away to start practicing the new spell.

Malfoy was never going to speak to him again, was he?

It certainly seemed that way.

He failed to show up again Monday night. Harry waited up way past dawn, but the git never came. It was the first time Malfoy had been absent for two days straight, but Harry tried to write it off. If Malfoy didn’t want to come, he didn’t have to. His reasons were his own.

Then Malfoy was absent Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Harry knew he wasn’t ill. He still showed up for classes, avoiding Harry’s eyes and his increasingly obvious attempts to catch his attention.

“Something going on with Malfoy, mate?” Ron said after class.

It was the following Tuesday. Malfoy hadn’t shown up that weekend either, which meant it was officially over a week (specifically a week and three days, but who was counting) since he’d last talked to the git.

Harry had graduated from glaring at the back of Malfoy’s head to kicking his chair if he happened to pass by. Dropping notes that Malfoy Vanished. Leaving food on his desk that he hoped Malfoy ate. Trying to talk whenever he got close enough. Just now, Ron had caught Harry not-to-subtly throwing a balled-up piece of parchment at Malfoy’s head during Muggle Studies.

“What?” Harry said, as if surprised. “No.”

“But –”

“Come on, we’re going to be late for Herbology.”

Ron dropped it, but Harry caught him eyeing Malfoy suspiciously over the next few days. Harry told himself to be more discreet, but he also found himself caring less and less as his irritation grew.

On Wednesday, Harry tried to catch Malfoy after Potions. He still hadn’t finished that damn essay, but Slughorn gave him a pass (“It’s a difficult subject, after all, love,” the professor had said wisely).

Harry tried to approach Malfoy under the guise of returning ingredients to the cupboard. He timed it perfectly and was rewarded with a half-second’s worth of eye contact.

“You’re avoiding me,” Harry risked muttering. The class was loud behind them, chattering and packing up their things.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy muttered back.

He slammed the cupboard door shut, nearly getting Harry’s fingers. He left.

Harry cursed.

On Thursday, Harry threw all caution to the wind and sat next to Malfoy in Transfiguration. Ron and Hermione kept stealing glances his way, and so did the rest of the class. Malfoy, however, just glared at him when he sat down and refused to look at him for the rest of the period.

 _Why are you avoiding me?_ Harry wrote on a scrap of parchment. He slid it over to Malfoy.

Malfoy looked like he wanted to set the note on fire. Instead, he pushed it back towards Harry without a word.

Harry quickly scribbled on the other side.

_Git._

Malfoy took one glance at that and kicked Harry under the table.

“What’s your problem?” Harry hissed, rubbing his shin.

“What’s yours?”

“You, you bloody wanker –!”

The professor called them out then. She took points off both Gryffindor and Slytherin for talking in class, and Harry lost his chance to say anything else.

On Friday, Malfoy fainted.

They’d been having a practical lesson in Defence, working on a new form of the Shield Charm, _Protego Mirabilis_. It reversed the protective bubble to surround one’s enemy, essentially creating a cage that bounced spells back onto the caster.

Malfoy had been partnered with a dour-looking Slytherin seventh year. Harry knew because he had been watching (discreetly), which made his performance suffer and Hermione exasperated, but he was the first to notice when Malfoy suddenly collapsed.

Harry didn’t think twice. He started in Malfoy’s direction, but immediately smacked into Hermione’s rather forceful Shield Charm. Irritated and more than a little panicked, Harry rounded on Hermione, about to yell at her to remove it, but then she lifted it on her own.

She looked surprised.

By this point, other people had noticed Malfoy as well. Professor Iratio was heading towards the source of the mutterings and growing crowd.

“I didn’t do anything!” Malfoy’s partner was saying. “I swear, he just fell down all of a sudden –”

Professor Iratio bent over Malfoy’s prone body, ignoring him. Harry pushed past people to get closer, ignoring the odd looks they gave him. A few seconds later, he’d gotten close enough, Ron and Hermione hovering behind him, to see Malfoy start to stir.

He opened his eyes.

“What happened?” Professor Iratio said.

“What?” Malfoy mumbled. He looked warily at the group of students surrounding him. He scowled. “Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He tried to get up, but Professor Iratio barked at him to stay seated. He grabbed Malfoy’s wrist, testing his pulse, and felt his forehead, which shone with sweat. The class was silent.

“Professor,” Harry said, surprising himself. Everyone turned to look at him, but he ignored them. “He needs the Hospital Wing. I can take him, if that’s all right.”

Professor Iratio gave Harry a searching look.

“No,” he said. He looked just behind Harry. “Weasley, you take him.”

Harry stepped forward, struggling not to scowl. “But, professor –!”

“I don’t need Potter or the Weasel,” Malfoy said, cutting across Harry. “I’m _fine._ ”

Furious, Harry glared at Malfoy. Even now, he refused to look at him.

 _Wanker_.

Professor Iratio’s black eyes narrowed. He stood up.

“Mr. Malfoy, you are clearly suffering from insomnia and probable malnutrition, possibly even blood loss. I hate to point out the obvious, but you need to see Madam Pomfrey at once. Since Mr. Potter has done nothing today but waste class time watching you like the last slice of pie at the Halloween Feast, Mr. Weasley will escort you to the Hospital Wing. Does anyone have any objections?”

Harry felt his face heat up as everyone turned to look at him. He opened his mouth, but at a nudge from Ron, closed it. Malfoy still wouldn’t turn his way.

“Good,” Professor Iratio said. “Now, Weasley, if you’d please.”

Ron cleared his throat. “Er, right.”

He gave Harry a curious look as he passed, but Harry just frowned, shaking his head. They left without another complaint from Malfoy, Harry, or Ron, though all three looked like they’d gotten the worse end of the deal.

“What was that about?” Hermione said as the class dispersed.

Shining new Shield Charms filled the classroom again, but Harry could feel everyone’s eyes occasionally flickering his way. He scowled.

“Let’s just focus on the Charm, all right?” he said.

She bit her lip, a worried look in her eyes.

“All right,” she said.

Malfoy didn’t come to the Tower that night either. Harry sat there, huddled in his cloak, fuming for hours. Saturday morning dawned bright and early with awfully cheerful birds. Harry, scowling, his head throbbing, glared at the clear morning and decided that enough was enough.

He was going to talk to Malfoy.

Harry took out his Map. He quickly scanned the Slytherin dormitory, the library, Owlery, and Malfoy’s other favorite haunts, until his eyes fell on the Hospital Wing. He felt a small twinge of worry.

What was he still doing there?

Getting up, Harry set off immediately. The castle was quiet, enjoying the lie-in. It was the weekend – a breath of fresh air for students and professors alike. The air was crisp with the new day, and it helped wake him up a bit as he made his way down to the first floor.

Harry reached the Hospital Wing without incident. Visiting hours weren’t for a while yet, but he knew from experience that Madam Pomfrey would be asleep this early on a Saturday. No one was around to enforce the rules.

He slipped in quietly.

The Wing was empty except for one occupied bed at the end of the room. Harry approached it, suddenly feeling nervous.

Malfoy was asleep.

He was in his grey nighties, scrunched up like a ball on his side. His breaths were even and deep, his pale hair splayed out on the pillow. It was the first time Harry had ever seen him like this.

Curious, Harry slowly knelt down by his bedside. Malfoy’s face, always sneering or scowling when awake, was smooth in slumber. He still had the ever-present marks of fatigue smudging the skin under his eyes, but somehow, he looked younger. Innocent, even.

Harry gently pushed a lock of his hair back.

He stayed like that, idly watching the sunlight play on Malfoy’s face, for what seemed like both a long and short time.

A distant noise made him start.

He took a deep breath. He looked again at Malfoy. The morning light hovered in the still air, revealing lazy dust motes that danced around his face. It lit up his pale eyelashes and softened the weariness that still lingered even in his sleep.

Harry felt a strange ache fill him, making it hard to breathe, and even harder to go.

He heard the telltale signs of Madam Pomfrey starting to wake up. He really had to leave now, he thought, or risk getting caught.

Doing what?

Harry risked one last lingering glance. Without saying a word, he walked out of the Hospital Wing, feeling even more confused than before.

Malfoy didn’t show up that weekend either. Harry hadn’t really expected him to, but he still couldn’t help the rush of disappointment that filled him as day dawned each time, chasing away another lonely, restless night.

Bloody ferret.

What was his problem?

Harry poked moodily at his breakfast sausages.

The git ignored Harry and then collapsed in class, then went right back to ignoring him. What had Professor Iratio said?

Malnutrition. Insomnia. Blood loss.

Harry thought of the bruises and cuts he’d seen on Malfoy once or twice, in random places and small enough that Malfoy himself probably hadn’t noticed.

Fury and a fierce sense of protection rushed through him.

He stabbed the sausage on his plate, scowling.

Ron and Hermione stopped whatever conversation they were having to look over at him. They were in the kitchens again, eating breakfast in preparation for another gloomy Monday. At least it wasn’t raining.

“Er, what did it ever do to you, mate?” Ron said, glancing down at Harry’s plate.

Harry sighed. He pushed the plate away from him.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just – got some stuff on my mind.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

“Harry,” said Hermione. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us?”

Malfoy talking about how much he hated his birthday. Malfoy playing Seeker games with him. Malfoy going on about muggle technology. Malfoy snogging him. Malfoy sleeping peacefully in the Hospital Wing.

Harry got up.

“We should get to class,” he said. “Professor Sprout said we should get there early today, yeah?”

Hermione got up as well.

“Harry, if you’re in some sort of trouble –”

“I’m fine.”

Ron leaned forward on the table, his blue eyes serious.

“How thick do you think we are?” he said.

Harry held his gaze for a second. He looked away.

“I’m fine, all right?” he said. He picked up his bag. “Just drop it.”

“But Harry –”

“I’ll see you in class.”

He stormed out of the kitchen, irritated and slightly guilty. He’d let them know eventually. They didn’t have to keep on pushing. Pestering him like everyone else. Like Ginny.

Harry slowed down. He ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut.

Damn.

Malfoy wasn’t the only one being a right wanker, was he?

Harry took a long breath. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes.

Malfoy stared back at him, just feet away in the empty corridor.

Harry felt his jaw drop. Malfoy blinked. Abruptly, he turned around and started to head the other direction.

“Wait!” Harry said. He followed. “Oi, Malfoy!”

Malfoy walked faster.

“Malfoy, wait!”

He rounded a corner.

“I said, wait a –”

Harry rounded the corner as well, and, lunging forward, managed to grab Malfoy’s wrist.

“– second!”

Malfoy jerked his hand back, forcing Harry to let go. He was scowling.

“What is it, Potter?” he said.

“What –” Harry started. He laughed in disbelief. “You can’t be serious?”

Malfoy raised a cool eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Malfoy backed away, looking off to the side.

“I’ve no idea what you’re on about, Potter. I’m going to be late for class, so –”

Harry took Malfoy’s wrist again, ignoring the flash of warning in his eyes.

“I don’t care,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“Let go of me.”

Malfoy tried to pull his hand back, but Harry didn’t let go.

“Malfoy, stop being –”

“Get off of me!”

“I just want to talk –!”

“ _Relashio!_ ”

Harry snapped his hand back. It burned.

“Mal –!” he growled, glaring, then almost bit his tongue off as Malfoy shoved him into the wall.

“It was just a snog!” he said. “Stop getting so bloody hung up about it and leave me alone!”

Harry gaped.

“ _I’m_ hung up about it?” he said. “You’re the one who’s been avoiding me like the plague!”

“So what?” Malfoy said. “So what if I don’t feel like going to the Tower? Why should it matter?”

“Because –”

Harry stopped, furious. His mind raced, but he couldn’t think of a good answer. Other than the truth.

Malfoy’s lips set into a grim line.

“I thought so,” he said. “Move over.”

Malfoy made to push past Harry, but Harry blocked him.

“It matters,” he said.

“Move.”

“You want to know why?”

Malfoy stared back, his grey eyes challenging.

“I swear I’ll hex you, Potter.”

Harry bit his lip. He felt his breaths quicken. He really hadn’t wanted it to get this far.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. His heart seemed be beating abnormally loud. He wondered if Malfoy could hear. “All right? That’s why it matters. I miss you.”

Malfoy fell silent. Harry saw his jaw working, eyes looking back and forth between his.

“Just move,” he said, quietly.

Harry hesitated for a second, and then stepped aside. He did nothing as Malfoy pushed past him and, without another word, walked away.

Harry stared after him until he rounded a corner. Cursing, he punched the wall and then cursed louder as pain burst in his knuckles.

“What did it do to you this time?”

Shock flooded through him. Harry whirled around. Ginny faced him, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and her lips thinner than McGonagall’s, if that were possible. She arched an eyebrow.

“Come with me,” she said.

Harry felt his mouth go dry.

“Er, maybe later,” he said. “I’ve got to get to Herbology...”

Ginny narrowed her eyes.

“Now.”

Harry bit his lip as Ginny turned around and started to walk away. He ran a hand through his hair.

Merlin, he was fucked now.

They entered the nearest empty classroom. Harry closed the door behind him, feeling as he did so that he was sealing his own fate somehow.

Ginny turned around to face him.

“So,” she said. “Did I just hear Malfoy say ‘snog’ or am I going mad?”

Harry’s mind raced, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Of all the people he’d thought about telling, Ginny had been dead last on the list. Honestly, she hadn’t been on the list in the first place, not only because she was his ex, but because she was _Ginny_.

When Harry didn’t say anything, she took a step closer.

“Explain,” she said. “Now.”

Harry met her fierce, almond eyes. He sighed. List or not, she wasn’t letting him off without the full story. He’d known the moment he saw her.

“You know how we’ve been meeting up?” he said.

Ginny pursed her lips but nodded for him to go on.

He leaned against a desk.

“Right, so we, er, met up the other week and got a bit pissed. I’m not too sure how it happened, but we ended up – you know.” Harry shrugged, trying to play it off, but Ginny’s eyes flashed. “And he’s not talked to me since.”

Ginny stared.

“You snogged Draco Malfoy,” she said.

Merlin that sounded weird. Not the least because it was Ginny saying it. But Harry just looked at her and gave a weak smile.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t smile back.

“And you miss him,” she said.

Harry gripped the edge of the desk, biting his lip.

“Yeah.”

“Harry,” Ginny said, and weirdly, she didn’t sound angry. Maybe a bit concerned. “You do realize what this is, don’t you?”

“What?”

Ginny chewed her bottom lip, looking really concerned now.

“It’s a love potion,” she said.

Harry froze. A million thoughts seemed to race through his head before he shook it, laughing a little.

“We were just drunk, Ginny,” he said.

“You’re not drunk now, are you?” she said. She raised an eyebrow. “Why else would you be running around saying you miss Malfoy, of all people?”

“I’m not ‘running around’!” Harry pushed off the desk, glaring. “It’s just – he’s been avoiding me, and –”

“And you miss him? And you think that’s all right?”

Harry thought of the way Malfoy had looked in the hospital wing, the way it had felt just watching him lie there, sleeping. He pushed this aside.

“Why not?” he said. “He’s – we’re friendly, remember?”

“A bit too friendly, in my opinion,” Ginny said. “Harry, can’t you see this isn’t normal? This is Draco Malfoy we’re talking about!”

“So what?!” Harry threw his hands up. He felt close to hitting something again. He was bloody sick of this conversation, ever since Malfoy’s hearing, but Ginny looked as ready to fight him on it as the first time.

“Merlin, you know what he’s done!” she said.

“He had his trial! Why the fuck should it matter anymore?”

“He was a Death Eater!”

“So was Snape! And Sirius’ brother! People _change_ , Ginny!”

Ginny laughed, looking as if she wanted to punch something too. Possibly him.

“Yeah? That’s what people said about his father after the first wizarding war and look how well that turned out!”

Harry exhaled sharply. He remembered Malfoy catching their fake Snitch for the first time, the way his stern face had burst into a broad grin.

“He’s different from his father.”

“Of course you’d think that if he slipped you something,” Ginny said.

“He didn’t slip me anything!”

“How can you be so sure? He could’ve done it while you were drinking. It couldn’t have been too difficult if you got that pissed –”

“Look, it just doesn’t make any sense!”

Harry pushed a hand through his hair, pacing.

“I’ve seen Ron take a love potion. It's not like I'm going round suddenly declaring my love for Malfoy -”

Ginny gave him an exasperated look.

“There are different sorts of love potions, Harry,” she said. “This one probably has different effects!”

Harry scoffed. “Pretty sure it’s not supposed to make me think he’s a git half the time.”

“And what about the other half, Harry?” She was red around the ears, her freckled face splotchy with anger. “What do you think about Malfoy then?”

Harry scowled, but he couldn’t help remembering Malfoy’s own flushed face, red with alcohol, ruddy with the cold, glowing with exhilaration. High with lust.

He felt a vague sense of panic start to creep up his chest.

“We’re friends, all right?” he said. “It’s not like I’m – I’m in _love_ with him or anything –”

“No, you’re just snogging him and pining after him like a bloody puppy,” Ginny said drily. She huffed, shaking her head. “You know I’m right on this one, Harry.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

Ginny crossed her arms, and there was no doubt in her face.

“Wouldn’t he?” she said.

Harry didn’t know what to say to this. He thought of what Malfoy had done under Voldemort’s orders, what he’d done just to make himself feel superior. When had Harry forgiven him for all that? When had he stopped seeing those things when he looked at him?

“It - it doesn't make sense," he said. The panic had reached his throat, making his voice sound off. "I mean, why would he do that?”

Something in Ginny’s eyes seemed to soften.

“You’re the Saviour of the Wizarding World," she said. "Why wouldn’t he?”

Harry shook his head. He felt boxed in, suddenly, the air hard to breathe.

“He’s a bloke,” he said.

“And?”

“And I’m not – I mean, I’m not even sure if I’m –”

Ginny looked not the least bit irritated then, just pitying. Like the day they broke up.

“We can talk about that after,” she said. “For now, we just need to get you to Slughorn. I have Potions after this, so I can take you there.”

When Harry didn’t say anything, she took a step closer.

“Harry,” she said. “Please, you’re not thinking straight. Just let me help you. Please.”

Harry looked at Ginny then, at her familiar brown eyes. He felt a sudden rush of affection for her that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time, and he remembered that he’d once loved and trusted this woman. He remembered that he still cared for her, so much.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He thought of Malfoy, his desperate need to see him, to protect him. He thought of that thoroughly buried desire to touch him just one more time: to feel his lips, taste his skin, and hold him in his arms. He thought of wanting to hold hands just for a little while, sharing secrets as they lay side by side.

He opened his eyes. He felt frustrated. He felt betrayed.

His head throbbed dully.

Ginny stepped forward. Gently, she took Harry’s hand, her fingers rough but still small and feminine. Familiar.

“Let’s go, yeah?” she said.

Harry swallowed, his throat tight.

He nodded.

As they left the classroom, all he could think about was Malfoy’s mouth stuffed with custard tart, his silk clothes shifting off of him, his annoyed face when he couldn’t get a muggle concept, his sharp teeth scraping against Harry’s skin.

He held Ginny’s hand all the way to Slughorn’s classroom, feeling closer to her than he had in a very long time.

Somehow, he felt lonelier than ever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me!


	9. Going Backwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give up! I've been wrangling with this chapter for a while, but I think this is as good as it's going to get. I promise the next one will be better and updated faster.

It was nearing the end of September. The autumn air was just marginally cooler than the warm, sticky air of summer. Orange and gold trees mixed with the green, warming it further still. Chickens tottered about in the yard. Gnomes poked out of the garden. A pair of old Wellington boots sat abandoned outside of the garage. It was a Saturday. The house was lively with children’s laughter and adults’ chatter, everyone out enjoying the afternoon sun.

The Burrow was just the same as he’d left it.

Harry sat at a long table littered with empty cups and half-eaten cake. He was sipping at a bottle of butterbeer. He smiled as nearby, George emitted color-changing sparks from his wand for an excited three-year old.

Lucy jumped up, giggling, to try and catch fiery lights as red as her hair.

“Enjoying the party?”

Harry looked over as Hermione sat down across from him, a cautious smile on her face.

“Yeah,” he said. “You?”

Hermione seemed to relax at this. She looked at George and Lucy, who was Percy’s proud child, apparently.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been a while.”

Harry hummed. He looked around as well.

Teddy and Victoire, seven and five now, respectively, were playing by the shade of a red and yellow tree nearby. Ginny and Neville were lounging under a different tree, out of earshot. Molly was on the opposite end of the yard, lecturing Bill about his hair (“You’re a father, how could you possibly keep on growing it out like this?”). Andromeda and Fleur were at the other end of the table, sipping wine. Percy and his wife, Audrey, were a ways off, and Arthur and Charlie were working in the garage.

Harry grinned.

“Feels like I never left,” he said.

“Yes, I know what you mean.” Hermione looked at the trees, chin in her hand. “And it’s a nice day for it.”

“Yeah, it is. Thanks for getting my arse out here, Hermione.”

She smiled at him.

“Always a pleasure.”

It was Percy’s birthday. Hermione told him over breakfast that morning. At the time, Harry played with his coffee mug, not meeting her eyes. It had been nearly two months since he woke up in St. Mungo’s. He’d met with Ginny, even Malfoy, but no one else. He knew he was running out of excuses.

But once he actually stepped out of his kitchen and into the Burrow’s, Harry wasn’t sure what he’d been so afraid of.

Everyone seemed to freeze at first, when they saw him.

Then Molly swept him up into a fierce hug.

“Welcome home, Harry,” she said softly.

Warmth filled him at this, strong and sudden.

When they let go, she rubbed barely-there tears out of his eyes. Harry opened his mouth to say something, to apologize maybe – for staying away so long, for thinking it was too much of a bother – but then Ginny crushed him in another hug.

Knocking his breath away in more ways than one.

Afterwards was a blur of hugs and “welcome back”’s that had Harry grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. He’d needed this. Somehow, Hermione had known, like she always knew. Even now.

Teddy rushed past, closely followed by Victoire. A small doll was in his hands.

“Give it back!” she said.

Teddy just laughed, holding it out of reach.

“You said Ron’s working?” Harry said. He took a swig of his butterbeer.

“Robards pulled him in for more overtime,” Hermione said. “Something about a missing person’s case.”

“Anyone we know?”

“No. Even if it were, he isn’t strictly allowed to tell me.”

Harry raised his bottle. “Perks of being married to an auror.”

Hermione smiled.

“I suppose it goes both ways, with me working in Mysteries now.” She quirked an eyebrow.  
“Perks of an office romance.”

“Which I happily know nothing about.”

“Quite a lot of people would be devastated to hear that, you know,” Hermione said, laughter in her voice.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Well, they can take it up with the bloke who obliviated me.”

“Or woman.”

Harry felt his lips tug into a smile.

“Or woman,” he said.

There was a loud _POP_ as, nearby, a bunch of translucent bubbles suddenly burst open. Confetti rained down on all of them. Teddy and Victoire stopped running for a second to watch. Lucy clapped her hands, laughing, and George smiled with his wand in the air.

“How did that meeting with Robards go, by the way?” Hermione said, leaning forward. “I never got the chance to ask.”

Harry sat back in his chair. He smiled a bit.

“It was – weird,” he said.

To say the least. He’d almost forgotten about that meeting, to be honest. Almost right after, he’d gotten caught up chasing after Malfoy, and for the past week, he’d been caught up with just Malfoy. Malfoy and enough research to make his head fall off.

Hermione furrowed her brows.

“Weird how?” she said.

“Just –”

Harry sighed. He leaned forward as well, lowering his voice.

“We talked about what I’d been working on for the past year,” he said. “And with who.”

Hermione looked intrigued by this.

“You mean that informant, or whoever was sending you those letters,” she said.

“Exactly.”

She gave him a shrewd look.

“Are you allowed to tell me?”

Harry paused. Of course, he’d promised Robards that he wouldn’t tell anyone about the investigation. But that didn’t have to include who his partner was, did it? Anyway, Malfoy was much more than just his work partner.

He’d need Hermione’s help on this one.

Harry glanced around. No one seemed to much care what they were talking about, but he didn’t particularly want anyone else to know about Malfoy just yet. Hermione, noticing this, cast a quick _muffliato_ around them.

Harry shot her a grateful smile.

“It’s someone we know, isn’t it?” she said, speaking normally now.

“Yeah,” Harry said. He shook his head. He scoffed a little.

He looked straight at Hermione.

“It’s Malfoy.”

Hermione stared back. Oddly, something like triumph gleamed in her eyes.

“I knew it,” she said.

“What?”

Amazingly enough, she started to smile.

“I work with Draco, remember?” she said. “I had my suspicions when you got pulled for that special mission, and then I saw those letters and everything you told me about your relationship with him…it just seemed to make sense. And I was right!”

“I –” Harry felt he was gaping a bit too much, and he closed his mouth. He exhaled sharply.

“You didn’t think to mention this to me earlier?” he said.

“I didn’t have any evidence.” Hermione tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, looking apologetic. “And if I said anything, I’d technically be releasing confidential information. It wasn’t worth it for just a hunch.”

“Confidential information that you’re working with Malfoy?” Harry said, incredulous.

“No, I mean the fact that one of his projects involves working with a different department. With the Auror Department, apparently.”

“Oh.” Harry looked down at his bottle, frowning. He glanced at Hermione. “D’you know what we’re working on?”

She bit her lip.

“I have a good guess.”

“Which is…?”

She played with her wedding ring. She leaned closer, and as if forgetting her own _muffliato_ , she lowered her voice.

“You’re investigating neo-Death Eaters, aren’t you?” she said.

Harry blinked. Something oddly like relief seemed to flood through him. Hermione knew. She, at least, knew. He felt himself smiling a bit.

“Yes,” he said. “How’d you know?”

“I work in the Time division,” she said, looking grim. “Time and Death often collaborate on projects, so I heard through the grapevine about the neo-Death Eater investigation. Most people think of it as a farce. When I heard the project got transferred, I had a good guess as to who would get it next.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

“Yes.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“No one’s supposed to know about this, you know,” he said.

“Yes, well.” Hermione got that odd glint in her eyes again. “Too late for that now, isn’t it? How’s the investigation going?”

Harry stared back. How was it going?

He was sick of it. He was sick of arguing with Malfoy about the cult’s use of _transference,_ or promising magic to lure in low-risk muggles (something like a sinister Kwikspell Course). He was sick of arguing over who knew better than who. He was sick of poring over ancient tomes and dense essays about the Vanishing Charm. He was sick of learning nothing new each time. He was sick of Malfoy sneering at him for not knowing something. He was sick of Malfoy.

Like the other night. Malfoy had nearly chewed his ear off when Harry (in his apparent ignorance) mixed up Teleportation and Vanishing Charms.

“The Vanishing Charm,” Malfoy started with an almost Hermione-ish look on his face. “Completely eradicates the object into nonbeing. It has a completely different function from the Teleportation Charm, which serves to move objects instantaneously through space _while keeping it intact_. Merlin, Potter, a child would know this much at least, how do you expect to be of any use to me if you can’t even…” and on and on and on.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it. This was Malfoy he was dealing with, after all, and he’d dealt with the git for six years. It didn’t mean he annoyed him any less, but Harry knew how to handle him being a bloody prat.

What really bothered him was everything else.

Malfoy refused to give Harry any of his memories. Not yet. Every time Harry asked, that was his answer: not yet. But then when was he _supposed_ to get the memories? When was he supposed to understand why Malfoy looked at him too long sometimes, why he would rather levitate objects his way than risk touching him directly, why he slept in a shirt that used to be his?

It had only been a week since their first civil meeting. At least Malfoy was a decent cook.

Harry sighed.

“It’s pretty bad,” he said.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she said.

Harry smiled grimly.

“Unless you happen to know anything about the X Society, I don’t think so. But thanks.”

“The X Society?” Hermione said, a gleam of familiar curiosity in her eyes. “No…I don’t think I’ve come across anything like that, though I’m sure there are many groups under that name, it’s rather broad…Does it have something to do with ex-Death Eaters?”

Harry slumped back in his chair. Of course, Hermione wouldn’t know. Even Malfoy had no idea, but he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit disappointed.

“No idea,” he said. “It could have something to do with ex-ballerinas for all we know.”

“Mm, might be a bit more shocking in that case.”

Harry cracked a smile. He opened his mouth to say something else but then violently clamped it back down as a boy with bright, blue hair bowled into him.

Harry just managed to hold onto the table, keeping the both of them from toppling over. Hermione quickly took down the _muffliato_.

“Teddy!” he said. “What –?”

“Uncle George and I made up this game!” Teddy said, grinning broadly. Somehow, this seemed familiar, even though at seven years old, most of him was nearly unrecognizable from the infant Harry had known.

“It’s super fun,” he went on. “So, you have to come play it with us!”

George waved them over from a few feet away.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll only hurt a lot!”

Teddy tugged at his hand, making Harry look back at him.

“Please play with us, please?” he said. He tugged harder. “Vicky’s playing too!”

“My name is not _Vicky_!” Victoire called out, scowling.

Harry smiled. “All right,” he said. “All right, I’ll –”

He froze.

He brought his wrist closer, despite Teddy’s protests, and looked at his watch.

“Oh –”

Fuck.

Speak of the bloody devil.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione said. She glanced at his watch as well.

“Nothing.” Harry hastily got out of his chair, trying to ignore the way Teddy’s face lit up at this.

“I just remembered I’ve got something to do.”

He looked back at Teddy. Andromeda had chosen not to tell him of Harry’s situation, yet, so to him, Harry was normal Harry. The one who’d watched him grow and told him his mother would’ve been proud when he turned his hair bubble-gum pink.

He felt his heart squeeze.

“I’m really sorry, Teddy, but I can’t play with you today,” he said. He ruffled the boy’s wispy, blue hair. “Next time, all right?”

Teddy’s face fell, but then Hermione said she’d join in his stead. He brightened again at that. Harry threw Hermione a grateful look, even as Teddy stuck his tongue out at him.

George jogged over, Lucy and Victoire in tow.

“What’s up, Harry?” he said. “Something wrong?”

Harry shook his head.

“Sorry, something just came up,” he said. “I’m already running late, so can you let everyone know I said goodbye? I’ll come ‘round again as soon as I can.”

“Sure,” George said, shrugging. “Just know you’ll be missing the game of the century.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head.

“Believe me, I’m already regretting it.”

He walked over to the tree Teddy and Victoire had been playing at earlier. He took one last glance back at the Burrow. George was explaining whatever game he’d invented to Hermione. Victoire was helping Lucy climb onto Teddy’s shoulders. Some people had gone back inside, but Ginny and Neville were still splayed out on the grass, dozing, and Charlie was sharing a bottle of butterbeer with Bill.

With a smile, he turned on the spot and apparated.

It autumn was warm in Devon, it was even warmer in London. Harry felt himself start to sweat even as he stood on his front doorstep. He looked around, a bit foolishly, for any blond-haired and pissed-off wizard.

No one.

An uneasy feeling came over him. He walked into Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Lamps sprung to life, lighting the gloomy hallway with a warm glow. A certain chill still hung in the air, however, and Harry welcomed it after the damp heat from outside.

He walked through the hallway, breathing in its familiar silence.

He checked the dining room. He never used it, really, since he never had company other than Ron and Hermione. Kreacher still came by to clean it, however. The ornate table and chairs shone brightly in the light of the chandelier.

Empty. He closed the door.

Mutely, he walked down to the kitchen. It was even cooler here, so he didn’t mind lighting the fireplace. Pots and pans reflected its flickering light, throwing the rough, oak table into sharp relief.

Empty here too.

Except, there was something at the end of the table. Curious, a bit hopeful, Harry walked over to examine it.

It was a stack of books. They were set next to his pensieve, which Harry kept there out of habit. He’d not used it in a while, so the contents were usually clear nowadays.

Not including today.

Harry stared. He was supposed to go through someone’s memories at least once a day, but with recent events, he’d completely forgot to keep up. It had to have been at least a week since he last used the pensieve.

But the contents swirled silver, neither liquid nor gas, as if he’d just placed a memory there.

Cautiously, Harry took out his wand. He poked at it.

The contents swirled faster and colors bloomed out, painting a rapid, crystal-clear picture.

He recognized the place. It was the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts.

Harry’s mouth was dry.

This was Malfoy’s memory. He knew it for a fact. Malfoy must have come inside when Harry didn’t show, rather than wait outside in London’s humidity. He could have – Harry hadn’t bothered to change the wards around his house, like he’d suggested.

When Harry still didn’t show up, Malfoy might have thought it was a good idea to take a trip down memory lane. He was in his ex-lover’s house. The pensieve was there.

He must’ve forgot to take the memory back out before he left.

Harry licked his lips, his heart racing. He glanced over at the stack of books. There was a note on top he hadn’t noticed.

He took it with slightly trembling hands.

_Starstruck,_

_Read these and write up a report. I’ll see you then._

_\- Q_

There. That was Malfoy. Malfoy had been here. Malfoy had used his pensieve. Malfoy was pissed and wanted Harry to write another useless report on the Vanishing Charm, but that wasn’t as important right then.

Harry looked back at the pensieve.

He had to know. It was his past, after all. He had a right to know.

Harry took a deep breath.

Without another thought, he took the plunge.

The first memory was black. Harry panicked for a second, fumbling in the darkness. Eventually, however, images started to form. There was a weak light shining in from a wide opening – the same one he’d flown through with Dumbledore, once upon a time. Moonlight illuminated the stone floors and walls of the Astronomy Tower, which, even after the renovation, looked just the same as he remembered.

Low noises rose up behind him, and he whirled around. In the shadows, he could just make out two figures sitting side by side, one pale in pyjamas that shimmered, the other a mirror version of himself.

Harry crept closer.

Malfoy had his head on his knees, arms wrapped around them. Harry’s arms were around Malfoy, one across his shoulders, one holding his hand.

He cried silently as Malfoy sobbed, neither one saying a word.

Harry had no idea what to make of it. Before he could think of anything, the memory suddenly shifted, and a blinding light attacked his eyes. He blinked rapidly, wondering if Malfoy did this on purpose.

They were in Harry’s dormitory. The sun shone in through wide-open windows, throwing bright hues of yellow and gold on messy floors and four empty beds.

Harry was straddling Malfoy in his.

Seeing this, Harry nearly choked, but it wasn’t as if they weren’t decent. Malfoy was wearing Harry’s Metallica shirt and what looked like Harry’s pants. He looked flushed, with sleep-tousled hair and a softness that made him look infinitely different from the Malfoy he knew.

Harry tried not to focus on that too much.

His past self had on only pants, but Malfoy didn’t seem too impressed. He was frowning, while Harry was grinning, his hands resting on either side of Malfoy’s head.

“You can’t leave without your present, Draco,” he said.

Malfoy groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Present for you, more like,” he said. “I won’t be able to walk out of the room at this rate.”

Young Harry, who looked and sounded much too much like older Harry, laughed and kissed Malfoy. Despite his protests, Malfoy wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders and kissed him back. After a few seconds of this, during which Harry seriously considered pulling out of the memory, they pulled apart.

“While I quite like the sound of that,” Harry said, earning him a light smack from Malfoy. “I meant your actual present. You know, the kind that you wrap and hand over.”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow.

“You’re saying you got me one of those?”

“It’s your birthday. Figured you’d sulk for days if I didn’t.”

Malfoy sulked now, scowling until Harry kissed him, quick and affectionate, on his lips, his nose, his cheek…

“Harry,” Malfoy said. He laughed a bit. “Harry, stop –”

Malfoy laughed again, and then he kept laughing.

Harry watched this unfold, a bit confused, until he realized his past self was tickling Malfoy.

Squirming, still laughing, Malfoy suddenly managed to jump out of Harry’s bed. Harry followed, catching Malfoy around the middle and pulling him down onto Ron’s. Malfoy’s face was red with laughter now, fingers scrabbling at Harry’s hands. Harry was laughing too, looking at Malfoy with an almost unrecognizable joy.

Feet away, Harry watched, an odd ache in his chest.

Wrapping Malfoy in his arms, Harry kissed his cheek again, his neck, and then pulled him in for one that lingered.

Harry hoped to god that was the furthest they’d ever gone on Ron’s bed.

They snogged, heatedly, for so long Harry started to wonder again if he should pull out of the memory. Then they finally came up for air.

Harry touched his forehead to Malfoy’s, their breaths the only sound in the sunlit room.

“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy said.

Harry grinned.

“Love you too, Malfoy.”

Abruptly, the scene blurred and Harry was pulled through another smear of colors that took a bit longer to solidify. When it did, he was plunged into darkness again, this time somewhere indoors, with closed blinds.

The night’s silence somehow felt like a stone dropping somewhere cold, a sudden chill that left him feeling sick.

“We shouldn’t have done this.”

Harry looked around. He saw a small bed tucked into the corner of the room, by the window. The space was masked by shadows, but he could just make out a familiar, blond head.

“Why not?” he heard himself say.

“Remember Patil?” Malfoy said. His voice was harsh. Infinitely older. “Last I heard you two were still madly in love with each other.”

Harry scoffed, sounding older too.

“Hardly.”

There was a pause.

“Don’t be cruel, Potter.”

“Can’t help it, can I?”

Someone shifted, and Harry could see enough now to recognize himself moving in the dark, shirtless, possibly even pants-less underneath the blankets. Malfoy looked back stonily.

“I miss you,” Harry said.

“We see each other often enough –”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Malfoy and Harry looked at each other, as if having some kind of silent conversation. After a few seconds, Malfoy sighed. He closed his eyes.

“Can we not talk about this right now?” he said.

“When else are we going to talk about it?”

Malfoy opened his eyes, and even in the dark, even through the past, Harry could see the pain written there.

“Nothing’s changed, Harry,” he said.

“You’re right.” Harry reached up to rub just underneath Malfoy’s eye, as if trying to smooth the pain away. “I still love you.”

The image faded, blending out into a new memory. Harry’s mind still reeled with the last one, but a sudden, bright light pierced his eyes, letting him forget for a moment.

It was snowing.

Everything was white. It was a world bleached of color: the sky, the ground, even the skeletal trees that poked through the mounds of freshly fallen snow white like a newborn day. Not one bird, squirrel, or wandering deer was present to break the blank beauty of this winter wonderland. Not a single one, as far as Harry could see.

There were, however, two wizards.

Malfoy used a tree to block a deadly-sounding snowball. His pale face flushed, eyes determined, he threw one of his own with surprising accuracy.

Harry managed to dodge at the last second. With reflexes that made Harry proud, his past self launched a counterattack that hit home. Malfoy looked so outraged, Harry imagined him for a second saying, “My father will hear about this!”

He laughed, startling himself. So did his past self.

“Merlin, Draco, your face!” he said.

“I’ll get you for that, Potter!”

Instead of throwing another snowball, Malfoy grabbed a handful of snow. He managed to stuff it down the back of Harry’s coat, making him yelp. Harry twisted around and grabbed Malfoy, who tried to wriggle out of his hold until Harry kissed his cheek, attacking it like a woodpecker.

Malfoy laughed, grey eyes sparkling like snow.

“I love you,” Harry said. “You know that, right?”

Malfoy seemed to pause, and the way he looked at Harry, it was if they were having another silent conversation, a different one.

Suddenly, he pushed Harry into a tree and kissed him, soft and slow. When he pulled back, they were both radiant, somehow, more precious than the wonderland around them. As if to protect this, Malfoy spoke quietly, no louder than snow.

"I love you too." 

Harry pulled out of the memory abruptly, gasping, as if for air. He was shaking. He placed his head in his hands, tugging at his hair.

He screwed his eyes shut.

Sobs wracked through him, sudden, unwanted.

He stayed there until the fire behind him burned down to nothing but ashes. The slow darkness enveloping him, hiding his tears.

Cold like snow.


	10. Friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Things have been a bit hectic, but hopefully I'll have the next one up much sooner. Hope this chapter is okay!

The classroom was empty. With the students gone, the softly bubbling cauldrons were now cold, empty, silent. Harry felt a strange kinship with them. Ginny stood behind him, leaning against a desk. He faced the ingredients cupboard, thinking of his failed attempt to talk to Malfoy.

“Are you going to do it?”

Harry sighed. He turned around.

“I don’t know.”

Ginny stared at him, looking sorely as if she’d like to force-feed him the antidote anyway.

“You’re not thinking straight,” she said, her voice tense. “You know that.”

Harry paced the front of the room. He kept on doing that, as if somehow it would make this decision any easier.

“You heard what Slughorn said. If I take this – this ‘Affection Antidote’ I could lose _any_ feelings I have for him.”

Ginny threw her hands up. “And why should that matter?” she said. “You hate him!”

“I don’t _hate_ him…”

Harry stopped pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his head pounding. Ginny let out a frustrated noise.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “ _That’s_ why you have to take it! He’s manipulating you, Harry!”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what to do.

They’d talked to Professor Slughorn. Once Ginny explained the situation (Harry had felt too numb to say anything) Slughorn sat back in his chair with a small “ _hmm_ ”. He regarded Harry with tiny, appraising eyes.

“Sounds like a sticky situation,” he said.

Ginny glared. She looked close to exploding in Slughorn’s face, and Harry felt a sudden, strange urge to laugh.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Professor,” she said. She was gritting her teeth; Harry could hear it.

“I mean, Miss Weasley, that if Harry has indeed ingested a love potion, it is most likely an affection potion.” He shook his head. “And those cannot be cured so easily.”

“What d’you mean?” Harry said quickly.

Slughorn wagged a pudgy finger at him.

“Remember that affection potions work from emotions that already exist inside of you,” he said. Harry vaguely recalled reading that in their textbook, but he couldn’t be arsed to care about his Potions essay right then.

“It’s a delicate business, trying to dampen your own affection without removing it completely. In some cases, folks never get it back at all.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry.

“But there is a way?” Ginny said.

Slughorn looked back at Ginny, frowning.

“There is,” he said. “But if this isn’t a love potion, it might have some, ah, _disastrous_ consequences.”

When he didn’t go on, Harry furrowed his brows.

“What sort of consequences?” he said.

Slughorn shifted in his chair, settling into it as if it were a throne.

“I believe you’ve heard of the great potioneer, Herman Haffington,” he said. “No doubt you are familiar with his famous contributions to antidotes that directly deal with the addictive properties of mood-altering potions, such as Felix Felicis.”

Harry made a non-committal shrug, struggling tried to look interested. Ginny was glaring again.

Slughorn nodded satisfactorily.

“A few years ago, Haffington came out with one of his more brilliant works. The ‘Affection Antidote’, he called it. Works against all affection potions – a feat people had been trying to achieve for years before him. The only unfortunate aspect to the antidote were its side effects.”

Slughorn leaned forward. His eyes gleamed, as if he were letting them in on some great secret.

“The Affection Antidote,” he said. “Will dampen your affection towards anyone and anything for a short period of time. This, in and of itself, is an incredibly unpleasant experience. In addition, however, it can erase any and all positive feelings a person had previously held for the intended target.”

Slughorn looked between them importantly. Harry thought he felt a low hum of panic returning.

“And in the event that you haven’t actually taken a love potion,” Slughorn continued, when neither Harry nor Ginny said anything. “The Antidote will have the opposite effect.”

He paused again. Growing more and more frustrated, and definitely uneasy, Harry scowled.

“What does that mean?” he said. “Professor?”

Slughorn lifted his head and intertwined his fingers.

“It means your affection will return,” he said. “But tenfold. I’m sure you remember your friend Ronald’s reaction when he took a love potion. The Affection Antidote is much the same, if not worse. Its effects can last from a few days up to several weeks There have been countless cases of ruined lives – on both ends – due to the lengths secret admirers have gone through to display their affections.”

Here, Slughorn gave a great sigh, shaking his head.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: one should never underestimate the power of obsessive love.”

Harry listened to this with a neutral face, but inside, he felt his panic reach a peak.

“So,” he said. He tried to keep his voice level. “You’re saying if I take this Antidote, I’m either going to hate M- er, the person who gave me the potion, or I’m going to go completely mad for them?”

“It won’t be hate so much as indifference, but essentially – yes.”

Harry laughed. He actually laughed. Slughorn must have thought him mad – he knew Ginny did.

“I’m not –” Harry shook his head. He let out another laugh, though he found any of this far from funny. “I have to think about it.”

“What?”

Ginny rounded on him. Harry said nothing.

After a heavy silence, Slughorn cleared his throat.

“A smart choice,” he said. “The Antidote takes a few days to brew, in any case, so you can let me know by then.”

Slughorn then went on about a party over the holidays, but Harry barely listened. Just as he was barely listening to Ginny now as she made argument over argument for why he should take this potion. And it made sense. All of it.

It didn’t even matter that Malfoy was avoiding him now. He was still under his thumb, being tortured or put on hold for some opportune moment. Or so Ginny said.

Harry thought of Malfoy ragging on the Transfigurations professor with him. He heard Malfoy laugh at something that happened in class.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t be sure, not even of his own feelings, and that’s what frustrated him the most. Not that he couldn’t trust Malfoy or Ginny, and Merlin knew that was problem enough, but that he couldn’t trust himself.

When had it all got so difficult?

“Look, I’m not saying I won’t take it,” Harry said, cutting across Ginny. Her face was red, burning like the red in her hair. The crease between her eyebrows seemed permanent by this point. “I just want a bit of time, all right?”

Ginny gave him a look. “I don’t get it,” she said. “He’s tampered with your emotions, Harry. With your life. Doesn’t that bother you at all?!”

Harry’s head gave a nasty throb. It took all of his efforts not to yell.

“Of course it bothers me,” he said. “You think this is any fun for me? What if someone just came up to you and said what you felt for Neville wasn’t real?”

“I’d tell them to go fuck themselves,” Ginny said. “Because Neville isn’t Malfoy!”

“And what do you know about Malfoy?”

Ginny blinked. Her face was small with disbelief. She scoffed.

“I know he’s scum,” she said. “Who should be rotting away in Azkaban with his father instead of strutting around Hogwarts every day!”

She took a step closer to Harry.

“And if you had even an ounce of common sense left about you, you’d know that too.”

With that, she turned around, her long mane of hair whipping him in his face. She left.

Distantly, Harry heard a bell go off, signaling the end of classes. He’d missed Herbology. Hermione wasn’t going to be happy with him. Then he remembered their row that morning and figured that she wouldn’t have been happy either way. Her and Ron both.

Well, they could join the club.

Feeling miserable, Harry ignored the grumbling in his stomach and started for the dormitory. He felt tired. So very tired.

Once he finally reached his bed, he pulled the curtains closed and plopped down. The world fell quiet. Harry could only hear his breathing and see only the dark behind his closed eyelids.

The room was slightly chilly, but it felt nice against his feverish forehead. Almost like a cool hand. Like Malfoy’s hand. His fingers, his palm, his skin, his smell. Him, lying there next to Harry. He could almost feel the dip in his bed, as if Malfoy really was there. So close like always, and then even closer.

Lips. Malfoy’s breaths and tongue. His fingers again, on Harry’s skin, in his hair.

They were on the Astronomy Tower again, trembling together. Malfoy beneath him, pink, naked, beautiful.

“I love you,” Harry whispered.

Draco kissed him, looking at him with those silver eyes. He sneered.

“I know.”

Harry woke up gasping. It was dark. He hadn’t remembered taking off his glasses, but they weren’t jamming into his face. Hermione must’ve taken them off for him. She did that sometimes.

He groaned. Sitting up, he pushed aside his curtains and saw moonlight filtering in through the window. The dormitory was filled with four teenage boys’, and one girl’s, thunderous snoring. Harry ran a hand over his face. He must’ve slept for hours. Somehow, he still felt tired.

He grabbed his glasses, which were sitting neatly on his bedside table. Definitely Hermione. Getting up, he headed over to the window. He’d always liked the view of the grounds from their dormitory, especially in the dead of night.

He sat on the ledge, looking out. The world was sheathed in white, from the Black Lake to Hagrid’s hut. When had it started snowing? Hours before, maybe. Harry sighed. Mist formed on the glass pane, fogging up the clear, winter view.

He sat there for a long time. Maybe a few minutes, maybe another couple of hours. Did it really matter?

When Harry finally looked away, violet stained his eyes. He blinked rapidly and rubbed at them, seeing stars. He sighed.

He headed towards his bed. He grabbed the Map and Cloak out of his bag, pausing only when Ron let out a particularly loud snore. His lips tugged into a smile that no one saw.

Down the spiraling staircase, through the empty common room, out the portrait hole. The Fat Lady didn’t question his invisible hand anymore. She just opened one bleary eye and, seeing nothing like usual, slumbered on.

There weren’t as many people out in the corridors tonight. It was bone-cold, after all, and students didn’t need much patrolling on a Monday night. Harry didn’t bother to look at his Map too often.

The stairs up to the Tower were slippery with stray snow, but he was careful. Harry went slow, thinking of nothing but one foot here, another there. He was concentrating so hard on this, he almost didn’t notice the change in temperature when he got to the top.

When he did, he froze.

Malfoy didn’t turn around. Despite his excellent Warming Charm, he was swaddled in a thick, winter cloak, sitting by the ledge. Looking at the snow.

Harry knew he had to move. He should, but he had a vague suspicion that if he did, he wouldn’t stop until he had Malfoy in his arms, smiling, lips to lips.

“I know you’re there.”

Harry stopped breathing. Maybe his heart stopped for a second too.

Malfoy shifted a bit, huddling further into his cloak.

“Are you just going to leave then?”

Harry hesitated. This was a bad idea. The thought crossed his mind, sounding a lot like Ginny, but he also knew he wasn’t going to leave. Maybe it was the potion. Maybe it was something else.

Harry crossed the room, taking off the Cloak. He sat next to Malfoy.

“How’d you know it was me?” he said.

Under his cloak, Malfoy was wearing his silvery pyjamas. This sent another jolt through Harry’s body. He had no idea what face he had on, but it didn’t matter. Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He had his arms around his knees, looking at nothing but the whitening grounds.

“I heard you,” Malfoy said. His lips thinned. “Obviously.”

Harry found himself smiling. He’d missed this. Though he wasn’t sure what exactly ‘this’ was.

“I really missed your Warming Charms,” he said. He stretched, reveling in the summer-like warmth around him. He smiled wider as Malfoy glanced at him.

Malfoy looked a bit unnerved by this. He went back to staring at the snow.

“I’ve no idea how you plan to pass your N.E.W.T.’s if you can’t even manage a simple Warming Charm,” he said.  

Harry grinned. Was this the potion? Did it matter?

“You can help me study.”

“And neglect my own education? I don’t think so.”

“Don’t be a git, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be a moron, Potter.”

Malfoy looked at him, and Harry held his gaze. They both fell quiet. The night was silent, snow shifting off far-away trees and melting in the warmth of Malfoy’s Charm. Harry felt his smile start to melt too, softening at the edges.

Malfoy sighed. He looked away.

“You really are an idiot,” he said.

Harry blinked.

“And you really are a git,” he said. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” Malfoy said, frowning. “Is that you’re not gay and I’m not gay, so we should just forget about what happened and move on.”

“Who said I’m not gay?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Well, the Weaslette never said it outright, but I thought it safe to assume.”

“I could like both,” Harry said. “You know. Bisexual.”

Malfoy glared. He had that crease between his eyebrows, just like Ginny, but his was deeper. More permanent.

“In any case, I’m not gay,” he said. He glanced at Harry. “Or bisexual.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Are you sure about that?” he said.

“Of course I’m bloody sure. I’m not gay.” Malfoy looked away. “I can’t be.”

“You can’t be gay? What does that even mean?”

Malfoy shifted, pulling his cloak tighter around him. He spoke in a rush.

“It means I like taking it up the bloody arse and women excite me as much as a flobberworm, but I’ve got to marry one of them so, no. I’m not gay.”

Harry stared. Malfoy’s fingers were white. So was his face.

“Malfoy…”

Malfoy closed his eyes. He was shaking.

“Malfoy, look at me.”

Malfoy didn’t look at him. They sat there in silence, winter carrying on just inches away. After a few moments, Malfoy laughed. It was so quiet that if Harry hadn’t been listening, he would’ve missed it.

“I can’t believe I just said that.”

Malfoy opened his eyes. They reflected the falling snow. Harry wanted to touch him.

“Me neither.”

Malfoy looked at him. “I’m going to move on,” he said. “Whether you like it or not. So, you might as well move on with me.”

When Harry didn’t say anything, Malfoy sighed.

“Harry,” he said. “Please.”

He stuck a hand out towards Harry.

“Friends?”

Something tightened in Harry’s stomach. He stared at Malfoy’s hand, at his slim, piano fingers. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me you’re rejecting my offer,” he said. He gave a small smile. “I won’t tolerate it a second time.”

Harry met Malfoy’s eyes. This was the potion too, wasn’t it? Making him feel this way?

“Okay,” he said. He took Malfoy’s hand.

“Friends.”

 

He forgot to ask Malfoy about the love potion. There was never a good chance to bring it up. Not during class, nor during their next few nights up in the Astronomy Tower, not even when they ate lunch together in the second-floor corridor.

Ginny wouldn’t leave him alone about it. She somehow gathered he and Malfoy were back on friendly terms, and just about lost it.

“He’s using you!” she said, and maybe she was right. Maybe this was all one great scheme on Malfoy’s part. Maybe he wanted Harry’s influence. Maybe he wanted his good name. Or maybe he was just using this to torture him.

If so, he had to hand it to the git.

Harry would never have thought it could be so painful to be with someone he’d missed so much. He would forget sometimes. Forget they had this weird thing between them now, whatever it was – potion, feelings. In those moments, everything was all right.

They Malfoy would laugh. He would look at him, or say something that made Harry smile. And it would hurt all over again.

Ron and Hermione didn’t help. None of them mentioned their row, but it still hung in the air, waiting for someone to poke at it. He caught them glancing at Malfoy, at him, and they took up their habit of whispering to each other again. Harry knew he had to tell them. He knew, but as he got more and more frustrated, he just couldn’t find the words.

Christmas was in the air.

Snow coated all of Hogwarts, and Hagrid struggled through every inch to deliver the usual twelve Christmas trees to the Great Hall. An enchanted snowfight broke out in the Great Hall, resulting in at least fifteen detentions. Possibly a new school record. Mistletoe hung from the ceilings and doorways, making everyone rather giggly. Girls tried to ambush Harry under them, which had Ron and Seamus roaring with laughter. He quickly learned which corridors to avoid.

Talk also started up about people’s holiday plans, especially with the upcoming Yule Ball. Harry hadn’t really paid much attention to it. He intended to go back to the Burrow for the holidays, and it wasn’t like he had anyone he’d want to go with. Well, any girl.

It also meant Harry couldn’t make it to Slughorn’s party, to Slughorn’s great disappointment.

“Of course I understand the need to be with your loved ones this time of year,” he said, his eyes flicking up to Harry’s scar. A shadow seemed to pass over him. He cleared his throat.

“In any case, you might not feel entirely up to celebrating with everyone.”

He looked around, though the classroom was empty. Carefully, he reached into his coat pocket and took out a small bottle. Inside was a jet-black liquid that filled Harry with dread just looking at it.

“Finished it just this morning,” Slughorn said, meeting Harry’s gaze. “I recommend you take it all in one go. Doesn’t exactly taste like roses, this one.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said. He took the bottle. It was freezing.

Slughorn looked for a second as if he’d like to take the bottle back from Harry’s hands. He sighed.

“Really a shame you can’t make it to the party, m’boy,” he said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry.”

That had been yesterday. Today, it was the weekend before break, and Harry was in his dormitory, staring at the little, black bottle on his bedside table. The room was empty but for him. Ron and Hermione were on a date at Hogsmeade, and Neville had wanted to show Ginny a new plant in one of the greenhouses. He wasn’t sure about Dean and Seamus. Maybe they were with Luna.

Harry sighed.

Would it be so bad if he didn’t take the Antidote? It wasn’t like Malfoy was forcing him to do anything, and that constant, nagging urge to be _with_ Malfoy wasn’t so unbearable. He still had his wits about him. Right?

He was startled out of his thoughts when an owl flew into the window. Harry jumped up from the bed and ran over to see a dazed-looking owl stare back at him, a letter attached to its leg. Harry hurriedly unlocked the window latch.

The owl flew in, cuffing him rather intentionally on the way.

“I didn’t lock the window,” Harry grumbled.

The owl just settled on Neville’s nightstand, staring back reproachfully. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Is that letter for Neville?”

She hooted and hopped closer, sticking out her leg towards Harry. He frowned. Who would be writing to him? Mrs. Weasley?

Shrugging, he took the letter. Without waiting for a reply, the owl spread her wings and flew back out the window.

Harry stared. He looked back at the letter. The envelope was completely blank: there was no return address, not even his name. Curious, he opened it.

 _My dearest friend_ ,

_I’m bored. Come find me._

_Love,_

_DM_

Harry couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.

 

“That was fast.”

Harry shivered as he entered the sphere of Malfoy’s Warming Charm. He smiled.

“I know you too well,” he said.

“Why would that mean I’d be at the Forbidden Forest?” Malfoy said. “I bloody hate this place.”

He was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, and despite his Charm, his pale face was pink with the cold. They were only at the edge of the Forest, near the quidditch pitch.

Harry shrugged.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I knew you’d be here. It’s the last place anyone’d expect to find you.”

Which was a complete lie. He’d used the Map. As he said it, though, he realized that’s exactly why Malfoy chose this place. That, and not many people came by here, especially with the snow.

Malfoy smiled.

“You do know me too well,” he said. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“Clearly,” Harry said. He shifted his feet. “So what did you –”

Harry snapped his head back as an icy, white something speeded out from behind a tree and smacked into his face. Malfoy burst out laughing.

“That was perfect!” he said. “Absolutely perfect!”

Harry wiped his glasses, glaring.

“You’re dead, Malfoy.”

Malfoy sobered up enough to face him, grey eyes glinting.

“I’d like to see you try, Potter.”

They stared down for a second. Malfoy made the first move. He sprinted away from the tree, towards the quidditch pitch, and Harry ran after him. They both tripped and fell in the deep snow, laughing as they got up, tripped again, rolled away, crawled.

Malfoy had a good arm for throwing snowballs, but Harry was better. Soon, they were both soaked through and shivering, but Harry felt more alive than he had in weeks. Malfoy looked the same, with his cheeks red with the cold, his laugh infectious.

Harry finally caught up to him as dusk fell, the white sky turning charcoal grey. Malfoy had fallen again, and Harry was near enough to grab his ankle. Malfoy protested as Harry dragged him closer, laughing with triumph.

He climbed on top of Malfoy and pinned down his flailing arms.

“Got you!” he said, panting.

Malfoy was panting too, his grey eyes bright even in the failing light, the tip of his nose pink. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but words seemed to fail him. He just stared at Harry, lips slightly parted, eyes wide.

The snow was still cold around them, but somehow, Harry felt warm. Malfoy was warm too, underneath him, his pulse racing in Harry’s hands.

Harry didn’t think twice.

Malfoy’s lips were cold, icy like snow, but they warmed as they moved against Harry’s. Chapped slightly, soft but firm. When Malfoy parted his lips, Harry pushed forward, losing his mind, not caring. He tasted Malfoy, his heated breaths and something sweet. Harry craved the warmth, drank it in like air.

When Harry pulled away, he wished both that they could be somewhere warmer, like his dormitory, and that he could just lie there and look at Malfoy’s flushed, just-kissed face, forever.

“Get off me,” Malfoy said, between breaths.

Harry blinked.

“What?”

Malfoy’s face contorted.

“I said get off!”

He pushed against Harry, and Harry stumbled off, landing with his arse in the snow. Malfoy got up quickly, brushing snow off him with shaking hands.

“What part of ‘friends’ don’t you understand?” he said. “Merlin, if you’re so bloody desperate for a shag, go find some girl to stick it into, don’t just start groping me out of nowhere!”

Harry stood up as well, glaring as fury rushed through him. “I wasn’t _groping_ you!” he said. “And what about you? You kissed me back!”

“Momentary lapse of sanity,” Malfoy said, sneering. “I’m all better now.”

Harry gaped.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” he said. “Did you feed me a love potion just to make me hate you?!”

“Did I _what_?”

Harry felt all those weeks of indecision, frustration, and anger reach a peak, boiling over. He let go.

“Don’t deny it!” he said. “Don’t you dare! You gave me a love potion! That’s why I can’t stop thinking about you, that’s why I keep wanting to touch you, and that’s why I want to be with you all the fucking time, and it’s driving me up the bloody wall!”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his breaths harsh, his heart pounding. He felt crazy. He was crazy.

“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t take feeling like this anymore!”

Harry looked at Malfoy now, his hair damp with snow and lips parted.

“Just tell me why. To torture me? To use me? All of the above? Tell me. Tell me, Malfoy!”

Malfoy stared. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

He took a step back, looking away.

“I thought you could help get my father out of Azkaban,” he said.

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.

“…What?”

Malfoy looked back at him.

“He won’t survive there. Not with what my mother did. I had to find a way to get him out as soon as possible, and using you was the easiest option.”

 Harry shook his head. He felt cold.

“You’re lying,” he said.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Harry stared. There was a ringing in his ears, closing in on him. He hadn’t really believed it, he realized. Not until now.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, but one moment, he was looking at Malfoy’s pale, defiant face, and the next, his fist was flying into it. He thought he heard something crack, and it might have been Malfoy’s face, it might have been his knuckles, it might have been his bloody sanity, he didn’t care. He just kept punching Malfoy, taking what Malfoy gave back, until a passing group of Hufflepuffs came over to try and pull them apart.

Harry threw off the person gripping his arms, facing Malfoy, seeing red.

“Fuck you!” he said. “I never should’ve testified for you, you manipulative son of a bitch!”

Malfoy struggled against the Hufflepuffs holding him back, looking just as wild as Harry felt.

“Then send me back! Send me away, that’ll solve all your bloody problems!”

“Fine! I will! Go join your pathetic excuse for a father in Azkaban and never come back!”

Face contorting, Malfoy lunged forward, but Harry had already stepped back, turning around. Ignoring the growing crowd, ignoring Malfoy’s screaming insults, Harry stormed away.

 

When he got to the common room, people stared at him and asked why he was soaking wet. He shrugged them off, trudging his way up to the dormitory. Dean was chatting with Seamus, Neville with Ginny. They fell silent when they saw Harry.

Ron and Hermione were still out on their date.

Harry met Ginny’s eyes. He could hear melted snow dripping on the carpet. He felt bone cold. He felt empty.

Looking away, he walked over to his nightstand and picked up the Antidote. He could feel everyone’s stares. Unstoppering it, he brought the cold glass up to his mouth. It smelled awful.

He knocked it back in one gulp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if Ginny is getting a bit bitchy. I love her, and I really don't want her to come off that way, but, well, I imagine she can get a little pushy.


	11. Want Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super late update! I included both the present and the past parts in this chapter. Let me know what you think!

“Will you _stop_ that?”

Harry blinked. His fingers tightened on _The Disappearing Act: Vanishing vs. Teleporting_.

“Stop what?” he said.

Malfoy glared at him from across the table. They were sat on the floor of his living room, the telly a low hum in the background. Malfoy liked to keep it on for some reason, though he rarely ever watched it. Harry suspected he didn’t know how to turn it off.

“Stop staring at me!” Malfoy said. “It’s distracting.”

“I’m not _staring_.”

Yes, he was.

“Yes, you are,” Malfoy said. “And before you say you weren’t – I don’t care. Just stop it. I need to concentrate on this.”

Harry scowled. Malfoy scowled back. After a few seconds of this, Malfoy sighed. He took a long draw from his glass of white wine, and without a second glance at Harry, he went back to reading.

Harry looked down at his book.

He hadn’t finished reading any of the ones Malfoy left him last week. He simply skimmed through a couple, wrote up some bullshit report that Malfoy probably hadn’t even bothered to look at, and waited for the invitation back here – to Malfoy’s floor, his bad attitude, his telly, his good food.

Because the Vanishing Spell was the least of his worries.

Malfoy had a crease between his eyebrows. Harry could see it through the light locks of hair that fell over his forehead as he leaned in to read his paper. He was wearing a white button-up shirt, like always, and grey slats that matched his eyes. Despite his neat appearance, though, Harry thought he looked a bit worn out, his pale skin wan and eyes tired.

It had been five days. Five days since Harry went behind Malfoy’s back, invaded his privacy, and saw his memories.

Five days.

Five days of disbelief, of confusion, of inexplicable sorrow. Harry didn’t know what to feel. He watched those four memories over and over again, wondering why Malfoy thought of those specific memories, in his house, at that time. He wondered what they meant, other than the obvious.

When he first heard about him and Malfoy, it had all sounded like one giant farce. An impossible nightmare. But actually seeing it, _living_ it, was an entirely different matter.

They had loved each other. That was a fact. Malfoy had made him happy, and Harry made him happy back, and that was a hard truth to swallow, but he’d seen it with his own two eyes. It made everything so much more real _._ It made Harry so much more curious.

He couldn’t help but watch Malfoy’s every move. Wonder what exactly it’d been about him that made Harry fall so hard.

Well, he could see the appeal. Malfoy was attractive. Really attractive, and it wasn’t just his looks. The way he moved, carried himself, and even spoke. Every moment, he took as if it belonged to him, and that was a level of confidence Harry could admire, now that it wasn’t being used to bully the crap out of him.

But that couldn’t have been all, could it? Sure, he was handsome – more than handsome – but so was Parvati and that auror everyone thought he was dating.

Malfoy picked up his quill to note something on a roll of parchment that was already crammed with his neat, spiky handwriting. He was a bit flushed from the wine, which suited him, that and the soft, orange glow from his lamp. To be honest, there wasn’t much that _didn’t_ suit Malfoy, from the flickering light of the telly to the small ink stains on the edges of his sleeves.

He never rolled up his sleeves. The only time Harry had seen the Dark Mark was that first night, when he stumbled in drunk. He hadn’t really noticed this until Harry saw the Mark in Malfoy’s memories, stark against his pale skin.

When had that change come about, from hiding to not hiding? Right when they got together, or much after? When did his past self stop caring about it? Did he ever stop?

Would he, as he was now, ever stop caring?

Malfoy took another sip of wine, and in the process, met Harry’s eyes. He put it down.

“Can’t you focus on your work for two bloody seconds?” he said.

Harry blinked. He looked back at his book, feeling his face heat up.

“I am working,” he said. “You’re the one who keeps interrupting me.”

Malfoy scoffed.

“I’m interrupting you?” he said. “From what? Staring at me like a bloody idiot?”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“What would you call it then? Leering?”

“I wasn’t –!” Harry looked up, glaring. He gave a sharp sigh. “Just leave it, all right? I’m trying to read this.”

“You haven’t read anything for the past half hour, at least,” Malfoy said. He put down his parchment. A bad sign.

“If you’re not going to work, then go home, Potter. You’re not helping me any by just sitting there staring or leering or whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

“I’m trying to read.”

“Well, you’re not succeeding.”

Harry made a frustrated noise.

“Not like it bloody matters, does it?” he said. He slammed his book shut. “We’re not getting anywhere with this.”

“Maybe we would if you actually applied yourself.”

“Look, it just doesn’t make sense,” Harry said. He crossed his arms over the book, leaning on it. “The Vanishing Charm can’t move objects through space, right? Even if you tried, the letter or whatever would get so damaged, it wouldn’t even be worth it. The more I look into this, the more I’m thinking it’s got to be something else.”

Malfoy frowned. He leaned back on the couch with a thoughtful look on his face.

“But it’s been done before,” he said. His eyes flickered to Harry, then to his empty wine glass. He tugged on the edge of his ink-stained sleeve. “The Vanishing Cabinets at Hogwarts used the Charm to move a variety of objects. There were many complex spells infused into the wood in addition to it, but a piece of parchment shouldn’t be nearly as difficult to transport as a human being.”

Harry blinked. An awkward silence fell between them. Malfoy kept staring at his glass, as if trying to Conjure more wine.

Harry cleared his throat.

“Okay,” he said. “But the only spell here is the Charm. No matter how simple a letter is, it shouldn’t be that easy.”

Malfoy looked at him, tension still in his eyes.

“What are you trying to get at?”

“What if it’s not the Vanishing Charm? What if Melinda, or whatever her name is, lied to you?”

“She didn’t lie.”

“What makes you so sure?” Harry shifted, sitting up. “Think about it. That muggle girl, Katie, was rigged with some kind of curse, right? And Melinda told you about the Vanishing Charm _after_ we triggered it.”

“So, what are you suggesting? That they informed some random cult member about us and then entrusted her to send us off on a wild moke chase?”

“Why not? It makes more sense than anything we’ve come up with so far.”

Malfoy regarded Harry for a moment.

“I don’t think that’s the case,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Linda’s not exactly the brightest. She couldn’t lie to me without me noticing. And…”

Malfoy played with his glass. He cocked his head, hair falling into his eyes.

“She’s a rather poor Occlumens.”

Harry stared.

“You read her mind.”

Malfoy glared at him.

“Legilimency has nothing to do with ‘reading’, Potter. I had to get past her guard and sift through memory after memory for hints of deception without her noticing, all while trying to hold up a conversation with her.”

“But that’s –”

That definitely wasn’t in the reports. Using Legilimency to gain information was up there with force-feeding people Veritaserum. Harry himself remembered the intense discomfort of having another person’s mind search through his own, and no matter who this Melinda person was or how careful Malfoy thought he’d been, he felt a pang of sympathy for her.

He shook his head.

“Malfoy, that’s mad!” he said. “You can’t just invade peoples’ minds like that, just because you can!”

Malfoy sighed.

“Are you really going to make me argue for this twice?” he said. Before Harry could say anything, he gave a small, humorless laugh. “What am I saying? Of course you are.”

Pushing his wine glass aside, Malfoy leaned forward onto the table.

“She’s a Neo,” he said. “And she’s told me what she’d love to do, hypothetically, to any muggles she could get a hold of, and it’s not pretty. Even if I did make it painful for her, which I didn’t, that sick bitch would’ve deserved it.”

“Still –!”

“And before you can question my Legilimency skills, she was so pissed at the time, I could’ve pulled up her whole life history without her noticing. Which I didn’t.”

Harry stared. He hated this. How the hell was he supposed to argue with Malfoy when the git already knew everything he was going to say? It gave him a weird feeling, as if he were looking through the pensieve again. He felt just as out of control.

“Look, Malfoy, I don’t care if she was in pain or not. It’s just wrong, all right?”

Malfoy scowled. “I knew you’d say that.”

Harry threw his hands up.

“Well, I’m sorry you know absolutely every bloody thing about me, Malfoy. But you know the really unfair bit? I know next to nothing about you, or us, or why there’s even an ‘us’ in the first place!”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we were discussing the Neo investigation.”

“Fuck the investigation.” Harry leaned forward. “Malfoy, you’ve been holding back on me since day one, and I’m bloody sick of it. I just don’t understand. Don’t you want me to get better?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

Malfoy looked away. “It’s probably not going to help anyway.”

“Then why’d you agree to do it in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said. It was probably the most honest thing Harry had heard from him since they started all this. “I’m regretting it now.”

“But why? We were together. We loved each other!”

Malfoy looked at him. He narrowed his eyes. For a long, level moment, he didn’t say anything. When he spoke, his voice was steady.

“You looked at my memories,” he said.

Harry blinked.

“Yeah, I did,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Why would I?”

“Excuse me?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, thinking briefly about pulling it out.

“Malfoy, you’re supposed to be giving me those memories anyway,” he said. “Instead, I had to fish for them behind your back!”

“You didn’t _have_ to do anything!”

“I have to get better!”

Harry slammed his hand on the table, making Malfoy’s wine glass rattle.

“Merlin, Malfoy, I don’t know about you, but I want that back, all right? I want to be happy like we were in your memories and just go on like normal, but I can’t do that if you won’t help me!”

Malfoy scoffed. He leaned back, shaking his head.

“Nothing about us was ever _normal_ , Potter.”

“But we were happy, weren’t we?”

Harry held Malfoy’s gaze. Something seemed to soften in them, and Harry was reminded of the memory Malfoy, the one who looked at his past self as if he could see the universe there, hidden somewhere in his eyes.

He looked away.

“I don’t know.”

Harry shook his head. His head was pounding.

“What, so you don’t want me to get my memories back? Is that it?”

“I’m telling you, it’s more complicated than that.”

“And I’m telling you, it’s not. Either you want me back or you don’t, Malfoy. It’s that simple.”

Malfoy looked at him. He swallowed visibly.

“You know that’s not fair,” he said.

Harry held his breath. He didn’t know what to do with Malfoy’s stare. How vulnerable he looked right then, as if admitting to his sins. He sighed.

“Just answer the question,” he said.

Malfoy flushed. He looked between Harry’s eyes, as if searching for the answer. After what seemed like several seconds, he looked away.

“Do you want them now?” he said.

“What?”

“The memories. I can give them to you now, if you want.”

“Oh.”

Harry sat up, feeling his heart start to race. He didn’t really think Malfoy was going to give up his memories. Was it really going to be this easy?

No. What was he talking about? This hadn’t been easy at all.

“Well, Ron and Hermione usually give me a few a day,” he said, in a rush. “I think we’d all go mad otherwise.”

“Fine.”

Malfoy Conjured a glass vial. Without meeting Harry’s eyes, he pointed his wand at his temple. The room was silent for several seconds as Harry watched Malfoy reach back into his memories, his thin lips twitching up one moment, curling down at another. The telly short-circuited.

Finally, Malfoy moved his wand away, and a fine thread was attached at the tip, neither liquid nor gas. It shimmered with its own light. Malfoy opened his silver eyes when the thread broke away from his temple, and he watched with odd detachment as he placed it into the glass bottle.

Mutely, he handed it over. Harry took it with wide eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

Malfoy pursed his lips.

“Just focus on your work.”

Malfoy got up to pour himself another glass of wine, and Harry opened up his book again. He stared at the words on the page, not looking up even when Malfoy came back. He read, comprehending nothing, just holding the warm bottle in his hand and wondering what Malfoy had chosen, this time, to remember.

 

Grey. When had the world gotten so grey? So dull. Harry thought this even as the bottle left his lips, empty. A chill shuddered through him. Cold. Like ice.

He put the bottle back on the nightstand.

Standing felt so tiring, all of a sudden. He sat down on his bed, ignoring his wet clothes. Ignoring everything. Everyone. He lay down with a wave of fatigue and closed his eyes. It was all so tiring. So grey.

A voice rose up by his side. He opened his eyes.

“Harry?” Ginny said. She glanced at the bottle. “Are you all right?”

Harry mustered up the energy to open his mouth.

“Tired,” he said.

Ginny frowned. “Tired?” she said. “Well, if you’re going to sleep, you should get out of those clothes. They’re soaking wet.”

“It’s fine.”

“I don’t think it is, Harry.”

Harry sighed. He closed his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Ginny hovered for a few more moments, but when Harry didn’t say or do anything else, she walked away. He didn’t care. She had never loved him anyway. No one loved him. Not really. How could they? They weren’t family; he’d never had a family. He could never love someone as a brother, sister, mom, or dad. No one could call him a sibling, or a son. He had no one. No one.

Thus started one of the worst weeks of Harry’s life.

He stayed in bed for most of it, but Ron and Hermione dragged him to classes. Ginny told them he’d taken an Affection Antidote, but kept quiet about who for. They tried asking him a couple times, but he could care less about answering. He could care less about pretty much everything. He ate when Ginny force-fed him meals. He bathed when Ron eventually dragged him to the showers.

He cried randomly. An intense sadness would engulf him at times, grief for Fred, for Sirius, for Lupin, for his parents, for Dumbledore, for himself.

How could he go on, when he’d brought so much pain to the people he loved? How could he be here, when they were there? He hadn’t deserved their sacrifices. He’d never deserved any of this.

Harry felt trapped by these thoughts. They circled endlessly through the days and nights, bleeding together into a bleak, never-ending blur. He dreamed old dreams: Cedric dying, Voldemort’s face in the mirror, Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower, Snape’s black eyes staring into his own.

No one could comfort him. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione tried, but Harry only felt weary of their company. Tired of their words.

Hermione rowed with Ginny about the Antidote.

“How could you two think this was a good idea?!” she said.

“It was the only idea, Hermione! He had no choice!”

“Only because you didn’t give him one!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m saying Harry couldn’t have thought of a love potion on his own, not if he already liked this person. You made him think he took one, and now he’s like this!”

“He _did_ take one! If you only knew –”

“I have a good idea.”

Hermione crossed her arms, eyes flashing. Something seemed to pass between them, and they fell into an angry silence afterwards.

Harry had been lying in bed, thinking of Malfoy.

When he wasn’t caught in wracking guilt or grief, that’s what he’d do. He’d think idly of Malfoy. What he was doing, if he was eating. He thought about Malfoy in the snow, or in the second-floor corridor. On a window ledge, eating a turkey sandwich. He thought especially of nighttime Malfoy. Like that first night, when Harry thought he was going to kill himself. That one night, when they lay side by side at the Black Lake.

It kept the dark thoughts at bay.

Slughorn checked up on him after class once, at Ron and Hermione’s request.

“Yes,” he said, looking solemn. “Unfortunately, this is a normal effect of the Antidote. The duration varies from person to person, but the depressive period normally doesn’t last for more than a week.”

“A week?” Ron said. He looked pale.

Slughorn clapped Harry on the back. He stumbled.

“I’m sorry, m’boy,” he said. He looked at Harry, eyes reflecting his sadness. “Truly am.”

It lasted five days.

He endured four before trying to off himself. Luckily, Hermione stopped him before he actually got anywhere. They were in the common room. Ron and Hermione were discussing what they should do for the holidays, considering Harry’s condition.

Harry was staring at the fire, remembering when Sirius appeared there to talk to him, to give him advice. He’d never have someone like that again, someone he could rely on like a parent, someone so close to the life he could have had. Harry looked down at his hands. Blood soaked them, Sirius’ blood, Dobby’s blood, Moody’s.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Opening them, he took out his wand, pointed it at his head, and before he could even think of what spell to use, Hermione shouted, _“Expelliarmus!”_

They somehow managed to explain it to the other Gryffindors. Something about Harry trying to copy Hermione’s essay.

Ginny was horrified. She took it up with Slughorn, who said suicide attempts were possible, but rare, and admitted that with Harry’s history, he probably should have mentioned it.

Hermione had to stop Ginny from hexing him.

It didn’t matter. Hermione confiscated his wand, and before he could even think about getting it back, he had entered Phase 2 of the Affection Antidote Side Effects.

The moment of truth.

It was instantaneous. One moment, Harry was sitting in Transfiguration, thinking about the insignificance of life, when the sun itself seemed to enter the room, making the world brighter, warmer, full of possibilities.

He took a deep breath. He smiled for the first time in days.

Hermione noticed the change instantly. She nudged Ron who looked over as well. When he saw Harry, he froze for a second, then broke out into a matching smile.

“About time!” he said. “We were starting to –“

Harry jumped out of his seat. Ignoring Ron, he started for the source of sunshine in the windowless room, warmth beating from his chest to his toes.

Hermione held him back.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, grabbing his arm. Before he could say anything, Professor Beckwith cut in.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Potter?” she said.

Harry ignored them both. He ripped his hand out of Hermione’s, strode across the classroom, and, in full view of everyone, kissed Malfoy right on the lips.

The classroom fell dead silent.

Harry didn’t care. Something exploded inside him – fireworks, burning hot and electrifying against his lips, his fingers, the scent that filled his head and his body.

Malfoy shoved him off.

“What the fuck, Potter?!” he said.

Harry fell on his arse, but he didn’t care, he didn’t even feel pain. The class took this as a cue to erupt into whispers, a couple whoops, definite laughter, as if this were all a joke, but it wasn’t. Not to him.

He bolted to his feet. He stepped closer to kiss him again, but Malfoy jumped out of his chair, backing off. Arms – Ron and Hermione’s – wrapped around him, holding him back.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hermione said, as Harry struggled against them, trying to get to Malfoy – to his sun. “Harry’s not feeling well today. Could you please excuse us?”

Professor Beckwith just spluttered. Harry didn’t pay attention to this. As if it mattered whether he was excused or not. No, there was only one thing that mattered. And he was being separated from it.

“Draco!” he said, between breaths. His entire body hummed with the name. “Draco, I love you! I love – mmfph!”

Ron covered his mouth, cursing. He and Hermione worked to drag him out of the classroom, everyone’s laughter following after them.

This phase lasted well into the holidays. Harry spent most of it being restrained to his bed in Gryffindor Tower. Ron and Hermione ultimately made the decision to keep him at Hogwarts, where they could easily contact Professor Slughorn or Madam Pomfrey if anything went wrong. Dean and Seamus were going home anyway, and Neville, who’d gathered a basic understanding of the situation, was eager to help.

Harry himself felt infinitely better than he had during the first phase of effects, but without Malfoy, he was still miserable. He chafed his wrists raw by trying to escape his binds and nearly choked on bits of rope when he tried to chew his way out. They untied him when his wrists started bleeding, magically locking both the door and window.

They restrained him again when he knocked himself out trying to break down the door.

It was torture. His need to see Malfoy was physical, and it hurt everything from his heart to his bones to be kept away. Even without his wand, he repeatedly Vanished his binds and managed to make it down to the portrait hole before getting dragged back by Ron, Hermione, Ginny, or Neville. He tried to steal their wands, he tried to find his, he would fight them, curse them, plead with them, but all in vain.

They Stunned him a few times, when he got really desperate, and petrified him when they slept. They also used _silencio_ on him, but he probably would’ve lost his voice anyway with how much he yelled and shouted to see Malfoy.

Eventually, he found a way.

“C’mon, Harry,” Ron said. He pushed a forkful of roast beef in his face. “Just a bite!”

Harry looked back stonily. “No.”

Ron gave an exasperated sigh. He looked exhausted. It was the first week of the holidays, Christmas, but no one seemed very merry. There were rings beneath Ron’s blue eyes and his freckled face was pale and tight with worry. He pushed the fork towards Harry’s mouth again.

“We won’t let you see Malfoy no matter what you do, so you might as well eat,” he said.

Harry just glared.

Ron scowled. He threw the fork back down on the plate with a clatter.

“Fine, don’t eat!” he said. “You’ll only drop dead if you don’t, but I suppose the git’s bloody worth it!”

“Yes,” Harry said, smiling. “He is.”

Ron groaned.

A knock came from the door. Ron got up with a sigh.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” came Hermione voice.

Ron opened the door to let her in. She glanced at Harry’s full plate. She looked just as tired.

“Still not eating?” she said.

Harry shifted his glare to her.

“Still no Malfoy?”

Hermione gave him a wan smile.

“Sorry,” she said. She looked at Ron. “Can I talk to you for a bit? Outside?”

“What about Harry?”

Hermione glanced at him. Somehow, Harry thought, she looked anxious.

“He’ll be fine alone for a few minutes,” she said.  

Ron seemed to notice this too. He furrowed his brows.

“Last time we said that, he broke his bloody fingers. Where’s Ginny? Or Neville? Can’t they watch him?”

Hermione sighed.

“They’re at the Yule Ball. I except they won’t be back for a while.”

Ron made a disgusted face.

“Nevermind then.” He glanced at Harry. He ran a hand through his hair. “All right, but not too long, yeah? We don’t need him jumping out the window or something.”

Hermione smiled.

“Promise.”

When they finally left, Harry got to work. He was chained to the bedpost, but he still managed to stand up on the mattress. Grabbing the post near the top, he started kicking it on the bottom. He was at this for several seconds, possibly breaking a toe, when a voice suddenly spoke up from behind him.

“You wanted to see me that much?”

Shock flooded him, and he whirled around.

Malfoy stood in the middle of the dormitory, hands in the pockets of his trousers, those beautiful, silver eyes looking straight at him.

“Draco!”

Harry jumped off the bed and ran forward, only to get yanked back by the chain. He cursed.

Malfoy didn’t move.

“So this is the famed Affection Antidote,” he said. He looked Harry up and down, a cool stare that left him burning. “Not very pretty.”

“Draco,” Harry said. He pushed forward as much his binds allowed. “I missed you so much. You’re amazing, you’re everything, I can’t – I don’t feel alive when you’re not here with me, I want you, I _need_ you...”

Malfoy turned a bit pink. He looked away.

“I heard you’re not eating,” he said.

“I’ll eat,” Harry said. “I’ll do anything. Anything for you.”

He tried pulling against his chain. Still as stubborn as ever. Malfoy jerked his chin towards the plate of roast beef on his nightstand.

“Start with that, then,” he said. “I can’t have the Chosen One starving to death on my account.”

Harry glanced at the plate too.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

He looked back at Malfoy. Fuck, he was beautiful. Had he always been like that? His pale hair, lean figure, the face Harry saw in his dreams. And his eyes, Harry’s could write poems about Malfoy’s eyes. They saw him, moved him, spoke to him.

Yes. He’d always been that beautiful.

“Kiss me first,” he said. Malfoy looked at him, holding him with wide, silver eyes. “I don’t care if you’re not gay or getting married or even if you were married, I wouldn’t care. I’ll eat when you kiss me.”

Malfoy laughed, softly, with surprise.

“How Slytherin of you,” he said. He raised an eyebrow. “How do I know you’ll eat if I kiss you? You told them you’d eat if you saw me.”

Harry tried tugging at the chains again.

“I promise,” he said. Struck with sudden inspiration, he held up a hand. “Pinky promise.”

Malfoy hesitated. He glanced down at Harry’s hand.

“You think I’d fall for that?” he said. He scoffed. “Just eat your food, Potter. Then we’ll talk.”

Harry scowled. Malfoy was so close, just out of arm’s reach. If only he’d come just a bit closer…

“Please,” Harry said. “Just one kiss.”

Malfoy hesitated again.

“You took the Affection Antidote, Potter. You can’t stop with just one kiss.”

“I can.” Harry bit his lip, burning. “Trust me, Draco.”

Malfoy looked at Harry. He sighed.

“You know I can’t, Harry.”

Harry strained again at his binds. Damn them. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to try a Vanishing Spell, but if he ate, he lost.

“What about your hand?” he said. “Can I hold your hand, at least?”

“Harry…”

“Draco. Please.”

Malfoy looked at him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again to look at Harry. Slowly, he took a step closer. Even more slowly, he held out his hand.

Taking it, Harry jerked Malfoy closer. He pushed him up against the bedpost, kissing him, tasting and feeling every bit of him he could, heady with his lover’s scent. Malfoy tried to push him off, but Harry, even starved, was stronger, and eventually, he stopped resisting. Hesitantly, he started to kiss him back…

“Oi!”

A spell blasted Harry off Malfoy, pushing him back onto Ron’s bed. Harry nearly bit his tongue off, but quickly got back up.

“ _Protego!_ ”

Hermione’s spell knocked Harry off his feet yet again, pushing him back onto Ron’s bed. Malfoy was flushed and disheveled on the other side, not meeting his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Hermione said.

“No,” said Harry.

Hermione gave him an exasperated look.

“Not you,” she said. She glanced at Malfoy.

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. He cleared his throat.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Did he eat anything?” Ron said. He had a hand firmly on Harry’s arm, holding him back.

“No, not yet.”

Malfoy was trying to fix the buttons on his shirt, a few of which were missing, but he seemed to have forgotten the spell. His hand was shaking.

Hermione took pity on him.

“Here, let me,” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she pointed her wand at him.

“ _Reparo_.”

His shirt pieced itself back together, good as new. He mumbled out a thanks.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione said. She looked at Malfoy with shrewd eyes, her face thoughtful.

Ron turned to Harry.

“Well, you’ve seen Malfoy, even got a good snog out of him –” Malfoy turned bright red at this, and Harry almost missed Ron’s next few words “– it’s about time you ate something, mate.”

Harry tore his eyes away from Malfoy to glance at the cold plate of roast beef. He was a bit hungry.

“Draco stays,” he said.

Everyone looked at Malfoy.

“Stay,” Harry said, looking too. “Please.”

Malfoy stared back at him for a long moment. The dormitory was utterly silent. The Christmas festivities didn’t reach them there, not the music or decorations or merry smiles. To them, it was only Christmas in name, but still, Harry knew he was about to receive the best gift in the world. Malfoy gave out a heavy sigh. Even before he spoke, Harry was grinning.

“Fine,” he said.

Shock flickered across Ron and Hermione’s faces.

“But,” Malfoy went on. “I won’t be left alone with him again.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Scared, Malfoy?” he said.

Hermione nudged him. “I think that’s probably for the best. I’m truly sorry about this time. I thought it’d be all right.”

“It’s fine.”

“But are you really all right with spending your Christmas here? With us?” Ron said. He settled next to Harry on his bed.

Malfoy glared at him. “I said it’s fine, Weasley.”

Ron shrugged, and eventually, finally, they had Harry sat in his bed, eating roast beef. They opted to unchain him, now that he had nowhere to go. Only the Shield Charm separated him from Malfoy, and, for now, he was content with simply looking – looking at his slender fingers, his fit body, his pink lips, and his stormy, grey eyes.

He was sat on the window’s ledge, staring out at the snowy grounds, and it warmed him to know that Malfoy was looking at a scene he himself was so familiar with. It was as if he was sharing this piece of him with Malfoy, offering up more than he ever had before.

“Do you remember when we went out to the Black Lake?” Harry said.

Ron and Hermione were sat on Ron’s bed talking, but at this, they fell silent. Malfoy glanced at them, his face tense.

“Eat your food, Potter,” he said.

He took a bite. It was delicious.

“When I told you why I don’t take Dreamless Sleep,” Harry pushed, swallowing. He sat up straighter. “It was the first time we went. You remember, don’t you?”

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. He looked again at Ron and Hermione.

“Yes,” he hissed. “What of it?”

Harry beamed.

“I reckon that’s when it started for me,” he said. Malfoy seemed to freeze. “You’re so beautiful, Draco. But the truly beautiful thing about you is how comfortable I feel with you. How happy you make me. I want to kiss you, touch you, and make love to you more times than Zabini ever did or could, but even you just being here, seeing you and talking to you, it gives me something I’ve never had before.”

Malfoy was bright red. Ron cleared his throat.

“So, when’d you say I could meet your parents, Hermione?” he said, loudly.

“Oh – er, soon. Whenever we’re free, really, maybe this weekend…”

“I’d never even told that stuff to Ron and Hermione,” Harry went on. “But with you – it’s always better with you. I don’t feel like I’m pretending, I feel real and free and _alive_ in a way I’ve never felt before. That’s been true for a long time, and I suppose I don’t actually know when it started. Maybe it’s always been there.”

Harry put down his fork, loving the way Malfoy’s eyes seemed transfixed on him.

“Draco,” he said. “I love you.”

Malfoy blinked. He looked back out the window.

“Good for you,” he said.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you, Potter.”

“Then look at me.”

He looked at him. Harry smiled.

“I missed you,” he said.

Something in Malfoy’s eyes seemed to shift, and Harry felt it like a physical thing, a caress that reached through Hermione’s Shield Charm, to him.

“I know,” Malfoy said, quietly.

There was a beat of silence.

“Draco –” Harry said, starting to get up, but before he could get anywhere, the door to the dormitory burst open.

Ginny and Neville stumbled in laughing, smelling of firewhiskey. They immediately sobered up, however, when they saw Malfoy. Ginny dropped Neville’s arm to point at him, looking furious.

“What is _he_ doing here?” she said.

Before either Ron or Hermione could answer, Malfoy got off the window ledge, looking just as furious.

“I’m here to clean up _your_ mess, Weasley,” he said.

“ _My_ mess?”

“Yes, you’re mess! You’re the one who made him like this!”

“Don’t try to act all high and mighty, Malfoy, you’re the reason why we had to do it in the first place!”

“I didn’t do anything! If you only bothered to get your head out of your cunt for once –!”

“Oi!”

“– you’d realize you don’t know your ex as well as you thought you did!”

“You think you know better than me? _You_?”

Malfoy shook his head, scoffing. “Merlin, are you such an egotistical bitch, it’s unfathomable for you to think he likes someone else?”

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Neville said, stepping in front of Ginny. Ginny pushed him aside.

“And do you really think he likes you?” she said. She laughed, almost hysterically. “Malfoy, he thinks you’ve changed, but you and I both know what you really are – a bloody coward who’d risk the lives of hundreds to save your own skin, and believe you me, Harry will never fall for a fucking arsehole like you!”

“Guess what, Weaslette?” Malfoy said, sneering. “He already has.”

Face contorting, Ginny lunged for Malfoy, but Neville held her back. Ron held Harry back from trying to get at Ginny, and Hermione tried, in vain, to calm everyone down.

Malfoy ended up staying for the remainder of the holidays. Ginny rowed with everyone about it, especially Malfoy, but no one could deny Harry was much calmer and generally happier with him around. They kept the Shield Charm up between them, and as per Malfoy’s request, he was never left alone with Harry, much to Harry’s disappointment.

Only Hermione talked to Malfoy. Ron tried, but the effort made him look like he’d be sick, and Neville and Ginny just glared daggers at him. Tensions remained high throughout the entire break, even with Harry’s improved mood, and everyone waited with bated breath for it to all be over.

Just a few days before it did, Hermione finally got around to asking her questions.

“Malfoy,” she said.

Malfoy was sat reading on Seamus’ bed, and Hermione was on Ron’s. As usual, they were both ignoring Harry as he stared at Malfoy.

Malfoy looked up. He glanced at Harry before looking at Hermione.

“Yes?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is.”

She gave a wan smile.

“Why are you really here, Malfoy?” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you doing this for Harry, but…”

“He saved my life, Granger. That’s a powerful debt to owe another wizard, as I’m sure you well know. I’m just doing what I can to repay it.”

Hermione blinked. This clearly wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting.

“I see,” she said. “And there’s nothing else to it?”

“What else is there?”

Hermione glanced at Harry.

“Don’t play dumb, Malfoy,” she said. She looked back at him. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not bent, Granger.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Malfoy gave her a level look. He closed his book.

“Then let me ask you something,” he said. “Would you really want the great Harry Potter, your best friend, to be with someone like me? You know what I’ve done. What I am.”

“Honestly?” Hermione said. “No. I wouldn’t want you ten feet near him. But if it’s what Harry wants, then I’ll support him. Unless he’s chasing after someone who’ll never want him back, but I don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

Malfoy paused. He narrowed his eyes.

“Even if I did,” he said. “And for argument’s sake, let’s say I do. It’ll never work out. You know that.”

“Why? Because you used to bully him? Because he almost killed you once? Because you tried to turn him in to Voldemort?”

Malfoy flinched. Hermione ignored this.

“Or because you’re a coward?”

Malfoy looked at her, defiant, and Hermione looked back. They were silent for a long while, until Ron came to relieve her. After that, they never mentioned Malfoy’s relationship with Harry again, but on the last day, Harry remembered this conversation. Lying in his bed, he mulled it over. He thought of what he knew about Malfoy, how he felt.

Malfoy was a coward. He was also logical, and he thought too much. About the future, about what it all could mean, this thing between them. But he didn’t have to. Neither of them did.

And then, all of a sudden, everything rushed out of him – the weird, burning need to be with Malfoy all the time, the feeling that he’d die without him.

He felt emptied out, after, but lighter in a way. For the first time in weeks, he had a clear mind, and it told him something he should have known all along.

Harry stared up at his dark canopy, reveling in just how stupid he’d been. He almost laughed. He wanted to cry.

Slowly, he got out of bed. They didn’t bother to petrify him anymore, since Malfoy had taken to sleeping in the room with them, and Harry hadn’t wanted to be anywhere Malfoy wasn’t. Hermione kept up her Shield Charm, but Harry knew, somehow, that Malfoy wasn’t in bed anyway. Not tonight.

When he got the Astronomy Tower, Malfoy didn’t even turn around. He just looked at Harry as he sat down next to him, a small smile on his face.

“You’re not going to attack me, are you?” he said.

Harry grimaced. “Merlin, I almost forgot about that. I’m really sorry –”

Malfoy laughed, softly.

“No need to apologize. You weren’t in the right state of mind.”

“I’d gone mad, you mean.”

Malfoy looked at him. His eyes were liquid silver, clear despite the moonless night. Carefully, Harry reached up to trace his fingers under those eyes, his cheek, his lips.

“I wanted to do this about a million times when that potion had me,” he said. “And about a million times more before that.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything. He didn’t move away either.

“If I asked you to kiss me now,” Harry said. “Would you?”

“I don’t know," he said. "Try it.”

Harry felt his lips tug into a smile.

"Kiss me, Malfoy."

Malfoy smiled too, hesitating only slightly before closing the space between them.

This kiss was nothing like the first time, nor the times after that. This time, their minds were clear, the kiss full of intent. It wasn’t need or desperation, but confidence and ownership, because Malfoy knew Harry liked him, and Harry knew Malfoy liked him back.

“Can I touch you?” Harry said.

Malfoy looked up at him, knowing. He ran his fingers through Harry’s hair and brought him close, their bodies flush against the other.

“Yes.”


	12. This Time

The Astronomy Tower again. Harry wasn’t sure what it was with Malfoy and the Astronomy Tower, but he seemed fixated on the place. Thinking about it again, maybe it wasn’t so strange.

Harry and Malfoy were sitting by the opening. In the full moon, he could see Malfoy’s silvery pyjamas and his own raggedy ones, the difference like night and day. The night itself was peaceful, silent but for hooting owls and the occasional breeze. Harry could only see the backs of his and Malfoy’s heads, that, the black grounds beyond, and the endless, night sky. He wondered what face he was making.

“Honestly, you’d probably have more fun meeting up with her than me.”

Malfoy scoffed. “That’s a bad idea if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Why?” Harry said. “Because she’s muggleborn?”

Malfoy glanced at him.

“Because she happens to be dating Weasley,” he drawled. “Unless there’s been some other falling out I’ve not heard of. That and we’d bite each other’s heads off.”

“Right,” Harry said, after a pause. “Well, she and Ron don’t get on any better sometimes.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“No, it’s just how they are,” he said. “Gets a bit tiring at times, but they’re my best mates. I’m happy for them.”

They fell back into silence. Malfoy shifted. He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on top.

“You chose your friends wisely.”

That was a weird thing to say. His past self seemed to think so as well. Harry heard it in his voice, which sounded wary, hesitant.

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose I did.”

Harry pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and Malfoy muttered what sounded like a Temperature Charm. It was cold, then, maybe sometime near winter.

“Thanks,” Harry said.

A few more quiet seconds, and Harry looked over, about to say something, but he started when he saw Malfoy staring.

“What?”

Malfoy flushed a little. He looked away.

“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we were friends in our first year?” he said.

“Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well?” Harry said, when Malfoy didn’t go on. “What do you think would’ve happened?”

Malfoy faced up, as if looking at the stars.

“I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine you without Granger and the Weasel by your side.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, hesitant again. “I don’t think I’d much like a life without them.”

Malfoy looked back down, at his toes. When he spoke again, it was quiet, almost inaudible despite the hushed night.

“You know, no matter what’s happened in the past, I am grateful to them.” He looked back at Harry. “And to you.”

“Yeah? What for, exactly?”

Malfoy bumped Harry’s shoulder, the movement so casual, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Don’t be thick, Potter,” he said. “You know what for.”

“I’m being serious.” Harry turned so that he faced Malfoy. He raised his eyebrows. “What for?”

Malfoy glanced at him. He scoffed.

“Do you say this to all your little fans, Potter? Whenever they come up to you to thank you or whatever it is they do, do you just stand there and say, ‘but whatever for’?”

Harry laughed. “Are you saying you’re a fan of mine, Malfoy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Harry seemed to hesitate. He smiled.

“Oh, come on, Malfoy,” he said. “I won’t judge you for it. I’ll even let you have an autograph if you want –”

Harry laughed as Malfoy shoved him.

“You can even have a picture of me –”

Malfoy turned, shoving him harder.

“Keep it under your pillow –”

“Fuck off!”

Harry continued to tease him, laughing as Malfoy continued to try and make him shut up. Harry wasn’t sure if this was before or after they got together, but they didn’t snog like in the other memories. Instead, they wrestled and cursed each other, Harry laughing with triumph when he managed to get on top of Malfoy.

Malfoy exhaled sharply, glaring.

“I hate you.”

Harry smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I rather like you too.”

The memory shifted. Harry could tell they were a bit older in this one, but maybe it was the clothes. They were in Malfoy’s apartment, wearing button-up shirts and ties that didn’t match their house colors. Harry was sprawled on the couch, watching the eternally-talking telly. He held a can of normal, muggle beer. Malfoy was by his side, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows. He was smoking.

“No, seriously, what’s she like?” he said. He took a drag.

Harry gave an awkward laugh. He shook his head.

“Draco, I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Why not?”

Harry gave him a look. “Because it’s weird!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“It’s not _weird._ We’re friends, Potter. Friends talk about this sort of thing.”

“Yeah, well, I know what your arsehole tastes like, Malfoy. ‘That sort of thing’ is off-limits.”

Malfoy flushed a little. He kicked Harry, calling him ‘bloody indecent’, and Harry just laughed. He looked at Malfoy with a familiar affection, the same kind Harry had seen in the memory at Gryffindor Tower, sometime, probably, long before this.

“Anyway, that’s completely irrelevant,” Malfoy said. “My arsehole has nothing to do with how you feel about – I don’t know, Patil’s hair.”

“Her _hair_?”

“It’s rather pretty.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes, I suppose she’s got nice hair,” he said. “Happy?”

“Hm, not quite.” Malfoy tapped his fag on the ashtray. “How far have you gotten with her?”

Harry groaned. “Draco…”

“Just answer the question. I’m curious.”

Harry tried to drink from his can, but then seemed to realize he was out. He shook it, as if to be absolutely sure, before putting it on the table with a sigh.

“Can’t you just shut up about it already?” he said.

Malfoy kicked him. “No.”

“Seriously? I’m going to leave.”

“Then leave.”

Malfoy kicked him again, but this time, Harry grabbed his socked foot. He hovered his hand over the bottom of it, poised to attack.

“Drop it, Malfoy.”

Scowling, Malfoy tried to free himself, but Harry held on tight, even when Malfoy snuffed out his fag and went at him with both hands. A second later, he was yelping, kicking at Harry with his other foot as he laughed, but Harry went between his legs and attacked his stomach, making him laugh louder. Tears poured down his red face, and wheezing, Malfoy said he gave up, gave up.

Harry didn’t move. Time, or the memory, seemed to stand still. The apartment was utterly silent as, for several seconds, he hovered over Malfoy, looking down, and Malfoy lay there, looking back.

Malfoy cleared his throat.

“Harry?”

Harry blinked. He gave a light laugh.

“Another win for me, then,” he said. He got up, breaking into a real smile when Malfoy hit him over the head and then the apartment softened, blurring. It crumbled and, after a few dizzying seconds, reformed into a new scene.

This one was at Grimmauld, in his room. He and Malfoy lay side by side on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. Two empty wine glasses sat on the bedside table. It looked to be night out, but neither of them seemed near sleeping. They had on regular, muggle clothes, even Malfoy. It might have been winter.

“Been a while since I was here last,” Malfoy said.

Harry blinked, swallowing. “Do you remember the last time?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Harry nodded. His hair scratched against the pillow.

“Yeah. The week before...the party. It was my early birthday present, you said. Since you couldn’t make it.”

“Oh.” Malfoy smiled, small and bitter. “That’s almost funny.”

“Funny?”

“Well, I suppose it’s more ironic than funny.”

“What d’you mean?”

Malfoy stretched, yawning. He put his arms above his head. His shirt rode up a bit, revealing a sliver of pale skin.

“You’re such a bloody idiot, Potter,” he said. He sighed. “It’s ironic because you were going to fuck that girl right here for the same reason.”

Harry frowned.

“The same reason?”

“Your birthday, you wanker.”

Harry clutched at the sheets, hesitating. He glanced at Malfoy.

“It wasn’t for the same reason, Draco, you know that. I was angry and stupid, and I didn’t end up sleeping with her; I wasn’t _going_ to sleep with her –”

Malfoy scowled.

“Did you want to be friends again, Harry?” he said. “Or did you bring me here to try to plead your case for the millionth time?”

Harry scowled too, but he didn’t go on. They lapsed back into silence. A car passed by outside, playing a clip of club music. Harry furrowed his brows.

“Can I just say one last thing before it’s officially over?” he said.

Malfoy closed his eyes, sighing.

“It’s been officially over for a while now,” he said. “But sure.”

Harry smiled bitterly at this. He was silent for a few seconds, as if gathering his thoughts, or courage. When he finally spoke, he spoke to the ceiling, quiet but certain, as if stating the weather outside.

“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, Draco,” he said. “And I reckon I never will. I know you’re sick of hearing this, but I really am sorry. I messed up. But that doesn’t change the fact that I care for you, more than anyone. I hope you know that.”

Malfoy bit his lip. His smooth face was wrinkled, as if in pain. He opened his eyes.

“Okay.”

Harry and Malfoy faded, as well as their odd, quiet night. In its place, a new memory, a new day formed, filling into a familiar setting. It started with laughter.

“I really don’t think you could call this a cake,” Harry said.

Malfoy scoffed. He rubbed at a spot of flour on his face, succeeding only in adding on more.

“I _told_ you we needed to add more baking powder,” he said.

“The recipe said –”

“Screw the recipe. It created a monster.”

Harry laughed. They were in his kitchen, staring at a deflated mess of a – cake? – and surrounded by a giant mess of bowls, pans, flour, icing, and butter, as if the insides of the cake had crawled out and exploded everywhere. Malfoy had pink icing in his hair.

“Well, I think Ron’ll appreciate it, in any case,” Harry said.

“He’d better.”

Harry smiled. “Better yet, you should give him a photo of what you look like right now,” he said.

Malfoy furrowed his brows. “What?”

“You heard me. You look bloody ridiculous, Draco, I reckon Ron would actually _pay_ to see you now…”

Laughing, Harry reached up to tease some icing out of his hair, only to smear it back on Malfoy’s face. Malfoy smacked his hand away, scowling.

“You’re not exactly a pretty sight either, Potter,” he said, which was true. Harry’s already worn shirt and jeans were covered in flour and smeared with blue icing. He had it all over his face and hands as well, as if he’d baked the cake with his whole body, somehow.

Harry smiled.

“I’ll be much prettier at the party,” he said. He started rinsing his hands. “You’re coming, right?”

Malfoy gave Harry a look. “To a party full of aurors, half of whom still think I’m a closet death eater? I don’t think so.”

Harry switched off the water, scoffing.

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “You’ll be coming as the Chosen One’s guest anyway –”

Malfoy shoved him as he laughed.

“Bloody wanker.”

“But seriously,” Harry said. He leaned against the counter, looking far from serious with his icing-covered clothes and wide grin. “I really don’t think they’ll care.”

“ _I’ll_ care.”

Harry crossed his arms. “You won’t even come to support me?”

“What support? You’ve already got the job.”

“For all the hardships I’ll have to face from now on,” Harry said. He gestured around the kitchen. “You know, getting out of the office and facing the real world.”

“Yes, you sound so cut up about it.”

Harry smiled.  “Well, it’ll feel good not being a trainee anymore, at least.”

Malfoy leaned against the counter too, sighing.

“And I had so much fun with ‘Trainee Potter’.”

“Come Monday, it’ll be Auror Potter to you.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Auror Harry James Potter,” he said. “Do I have your permission to skip your precious party tomorrow?”

“No, Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy, you do not.”

Malfoy groaned. He pushed off the counter, stretching.

“What if I baked you a cake?” he said. He put his arms down, looking back at Harry. “A better one?”

Harry scoffed. “You’ll just buy one and Transfigure it to look like you made it.”

Malfoy smirked. “I’ll make a Slytherin of you yet,” he said. He leaned against the table. “What do you want, then, Auror Potter?”

“I _want_ you to come to the party.”

Malfoy sighed. “Anything other than that.”

“It’ll be fun, I promise!” Harry said. “And Hermione’ll be there too.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Oh, then I’ll have to come, won’t I?”

“Come on, Malfoy. I know you like her.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, giving him a look. Harry laughed.

“Not like that,” he said. “You know what I mean.”

“Good, because you know I’m more likely to fancy Weasley.”

Harry smirked. “Oh, so you like Ron now?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said primly. “That’s why I can’t make it to the party; it’d just be too obvious. I even made him this bloody cake.”

He gestured to the sad excuse for a cake. Harry looked at it as well, chuckling.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said. After a pause, he pushed off the counter, sighing. “So you’re really not coming?”

“No,” Malfoy said. “I’m not.”

Harry picked up a tube of icing, glancing at Malfoy.

“So, you wouldn’t mind if I brought someone else?”

Malfoy frowned. “Why would I mind?”

Harry shrugged, quickly looking away.

“No reason,” he said. He played with the cap of the tube. “Just…she’s from your department. Hermione wanted to introduce her to me, but…you know, I didn’t want things to be, er, awkward, or anything. In case you minded.”

Malfoy stared. A definitively awkward silence rang through the kitchen.

“Who is it?” Malfoy said.

Harry blinked. He dropped the cap. Quickly, he stooped to pick it up, blushing faintly as he straightened up.

“Er, Taylor,” he said. “Jessica Taylor.”

“Oh. Her.”

Malfoy stared down at the floor. When he didn’t say anything else, Harry cleared his throat.

“If you don’t want me to –”

“No,” Malfoy said. He looked up. “Go with her. Date her. Fuck her, even. It’s fine.”

Harry blinked. He took a step forward. “Draco…”

“I said it’s fine.”

Harry shut his mouth. He hesitated for a second before stepping back. He held the cap tight in his fist.

“Fine,” he said.

The memory bled out, blending into a new scene, this one in Malfoy’s apartment. They were dressed up again, but standing this time, hair messy and ties askew. Familiar files and books littered the floor, the place just as chaotic as Harry’s kitchen, but here, no one was laughing. On the counter, Harry could see Malfoy’s copy of _The Disappearing Act_.

“Why the fuck should it matter?” Malfoy yelled. He jabbed a finger at Harry. “You go around fucking anything with two legs and a hole, why can’t I?”

Harry slapped Malfoy’s hand away, eyes flashing.

“That’s different!” he said. “I’m not _dating_ any of them!”

Malfoy threw his hands up.

“So what if I’m dating him?”

Harry looked wounded. Wounded, and furious.

“What about me, Draco?” he said.

“What about you?”

“We broke up because you said you can’t be with blokes!” Harry shoved Malfoy, making him stumble in the sea of papers. “You said you’ve got to marry and all that bullshit –”

“No!” Malfoy stepped close. “We broke up because _you_ decided to stick your prick in places it didn’t fucking belong!”

Harry ran a hand through his hair.

“That again? Merlin, it was one mistake! I’ve paid for it a hundred times over –”

“Yes, you’ve paid for it by going off to fuck a hundred other whores –”

“Fucking hell, Draco, I _didn’t_ sleep with her!”

“Oh, that makes me feel much better!”

“Stop! Just – stop it! Draco, you always do this! Like – I don’t know, like you _have_ to have a reason to stay away from me, and it’s mad!”

“I’m mad? I’m sorry, did I hallucinate seeing you in bed with her?”

“It was three years ago! Stop using that as an excuse because you’re too bloody scared to face what we have!”

“What do we have, Harry? This?” Malfoy looked around, laughing. “Don’t be delusional. We just make each other fucking miserable, can’t you see that?”

“Can’t you see I don’t care?” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s wrist. “Draco, I’m yours. I have been for years, and every time I think different, I just – I see you, and I’m lost again, and I don’t know why, but I told you before, didn’t I? That I’ll always love you. And I do. I still…”

Malfoy tried to step back, pulling away, but Harry kept him close. Malfoy glared.

“Let go of me.”

“Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

“Let go!”

“No.”

Malfoy tried to jerk his arm back, but Harry held on. He then tried to pry Harry’s fingers off with his other hand. Harry pushed it away, so Malfoy shoved him; they fought, cursed, Malfoy even bit him, and then one of them slipped, pulling the other down. They fell on Malfoy’s hardwood floors, yelling.

Briefly, Harry wondered what the neighbors thought of all this.

Malfoy started to get up, but before he could, Harry climbed on top of him, pinning him down. Malfoy struggled.

“What the fuck, Harry?”

“Draco, aren’t you sick of this?” he said.

“I’m getting pretty fucking tired of you!”

Harry exhaled sharply. He looked ready to either cry or punch Malfoy. Maybe both.

“Draco, if we give it another go, just one more time…”

Malfoy scoffed. “How many times do we have to ‘give it a go’ before you get it, Harry? We’re not good together! You and me – it doesn’t matter what we feel, because no matter what, _this_ is where we end up. Every single bloody time!”

“Because you’ve never given us a proper chance!” Harry said.

“So you think this is my fault?”

Harry shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. With a soft _thud_ , he lowered his forehead on Malfoy’s chest. When he spoke, his voice was muffled.

“I don’t fucking care about _fault_. I don’t care. All I care about is you. And it kills me to think –” Harry’s voice broke; he was crying into Malfoy’s shirt, “– to think you don’t feel the same way anymore, and I just don’t know what to do, Draco. I don’t know…”

Malfoy opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then he closed it. He bit his lip. Harry had let go of his arms, but he didn’t move.

After a while, he spoke.

“I think you should go.”

Harry lifted his head. He looked at Malfoy. Slowly, as if aware he should know better, Malfoy reached up to wipe away Harry’s tears. It didn’t help.

“Go,” he said. “Please.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Harry looked away first. He got up without a word, and Malfoy stayed on the floor as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Malfoy flinched at the sound. Closing his eyes, he brought up a shaky hand to cover them. Lying in the mess of file folders, books, and documents, Malfoy curled up. Even as the memory dimmed, fading away, the sound of Malfoy’s sobs, halting and painful, lingered long after Harry pulled out of the penseive.

He thought of it now, on the balcony of Ron and Hermione’s apartment.

London rain fell like a million tiny pebbles. It smacked into the concrete, rolling places far away, and even further away, lightning flared up in the night. Its thunder shook inside his chest.

Harry listened. He brought up a mug to his lips. The rainy, November night was cold, almost freezing. He could see his breaths. He sipped at his coffee, letting the warmth touch him.

The balcony doors slid open.

“Goodness, it’s freezing out here.”

Hermione closed the doors and wrapped her jacket tighter around herself. She looked around.

“What is it, Hermione?” he said.

“Just thought you’d like some company.”

Harry glanced at her, frowning. She ignored him. Rubbing her hands together, she came to stand next to him. He could almost feel her shivering.

“You should get back in the warm,” Harry said. He spoke quietly, despite the pouring rain.

Hermione looked at him.

“So should you.”

“I’m fine.”

Hermione sighed. After several seconds of silence, during which they both counted the miles off a burst of lightning, she leaned against the damp, brick wall. She gave Harry a look.

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?” she said.

Harry took another sip of coffee. It was getting lukewarm.

“About what?”

“About whatever it is that brought you over.” Hermione smiled. “Not that we don’t love having you, but it was a bit unexpected. Especially seeing as how you don’t seem very keen on talking.”

“I just…” Harry sighed. “I needed to be somewhere else.”

After looking through the memories Malfoy gave him, Grimmauld Place felt big, all of a sudden, and at the same time, too stifling. He couldn’t take being there, all alone. Thinking of Malfoy.

At least here, he had Ron and Hermione.

Hermione nodded, looking grim.  

“Is it about Draco?” she said.

Harry glanced at her. He gave a small smile.

“I swear, it’s like you’re a Legilimens sometimes, Hermione,” he said.

Hermione chuckled softly. “I’m afraid you’re just easy to read.”

Harry sighed. He looked down at his half-drunken cup.

“He finally gave me some of his memories.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “That’s great,” she said.

Harry laughed without humor.

“I thought so too, at first. But after I actually looked at them, I got the feeling he was actually telling me to sod off.”

Hermione hummed. She looked back at the rain.

“But he didn’t have to tell you that through memories,” she said. “Maybe the memories you saw were just ones he thought you’d remember.”

Harry frowned. What had been so memorable about them? Other than the last one, maybe, the one that Harry kept going back to. The one just before he’d been obliviated.

“I don’t know,” he said. He sighed.

Slowly, like an old storyteller, he recounted Malfoy’s memories to Hermione, letting the distant thunder and close rain keep the hesitancy from his voice. It got easier the more frustrated he got with it. With Malfoy and their strained distance, with Malfoy not explaining things properly, with Malfoy and Harry both clearly liking each other more than as friends.

When Harry finished, he tried to finish off his coffee, but it was ice cold. He put down the mug on a small, flimsy table, scowling.

Hermione frowned. She had on her thinking face, and for a second, Harry imagined she would jump up and head off to the library. If only there were books for things like this.

After a while, she crossed her arms, sighing.

“Harry,” she said. “Draco…he’s a cautious person. Even if I didn’t know him, I could tell just from what you told me. And I won’t say you’re _not_ a cautious person, but you can be a bit reckless. Could you imagine the type of fear and anxiety that might cause in him?”

Harry furrowed his brows.

“Fear?” he said. “Malfoy’s scared? Of what?”

Hermione sighed again. She gave him a sort of pitying look.

“Of you, Harry,” she said. “That sort of on-again-off-again relationship, I hate it say it, but it’s not healthy. I wish you had told me about this sooner, preferably when you still had your memories, so I could have helped you while it was going on –”

She caught the look Harry gave her at this, and moved on.

“Anyway,” she said. “It sounds like Draco’s aware of this, and right now, he’s doing all he can to keep from falling into it again.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Into what? A relationship with me?” He laughed. “Hermione, it’s Malfoy.”

“Can you really say that?” Hermione said shrewdly. “Still?”

Harry looked at her. He thought of how happy he’d seemed in Malfoy’s memories, when they weren’t yelling or fighting or hurting together. It was a sort of happiness he’d wanted for a long time now, but that didn’t mean he wanted _Malfoy_. Sure, he was curious. Sure, he would give anything to have those memories back. But there was a difference, still.

He shook his head.

“I don’t see him like that,” he said. “Even if I did, it’d be unhealthy, like you said.”

Lightning flashed far away, like it did in films.

“Malfoy doesn’t have to be scared of anything.”

Scared, anxious, hurt, heartbroken. No matter what Malfoy had done in the past, he didn’t deserve any of that any more than he’d deserved Azkaban. Harry had been the cause of all that. He could do better this time, though. He wouldn’t be the Harry who fell in love with him, who betrayed him, who hurt him.

He would be different.

Hermione bit her lip, as if she wanted to say something, but right then thunder clashed somewhere close by. She jumped, looking out. She was still shivering.

Harry smiled, feeling a bit guilty.

“Wanna go back inside?” he said.

Hermione glanced back at him. She still looked like she wanted to talk, but the cold won out. She gave a small smile back.

“Please.”

He followed Hermione back into the apartment. Its warmth washed over him like a Pepper-Up Potion. Hermione fixed him a new cup of coffee, and Ron clapped him on the shoulder, welcoming him back to Earth. Harry sat on their couch, which he actually chose for them, once upon a time.

The three of them watched some horrible, American film from the ‘80s. They talked and laughed, and kept doing so long after it finished, letting everything wash away under the steady shower of the storm outside.

That night, he dreamed of watching the film with, not Ron and Hermione, but Malfoy; at his apartment, on his couch, talking and laughing in their night and day pyjamas. Malfoy looked happier than he’d ever seen him, except maybe in memories, and Harry himself felt a happiness he hadn’t known in years. They sat in his apartment like they had, probably, hundreds of times. They sat and said nothing words, quietly together and content, if only in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking that Purebloods have a tradition where the eldest child gets their father's/mother's middle name, making Draco's middle name Lucius. Also, hope I'm not confusing you too much with all the memories! They do come up chronologically, although I don't imagine that's really how he'd come up with his memories. I just thought it'd be clearer that way. Anyway, I have most of the past part written up, so it shouldn't have a ridiculously slow update time. As always, please let me know what you think!


	13. A Fool to Want You

Waking up was warm.

His shoulder, arm, face – all of it was warm. Harry opened his eyes. The bright, morning sun greeted him, and he squinted at the light, groaning.

He looked over at the weight on his shoulder.

“Malfoy,” he said.

Malfoy didn’t wake up. They were sat next to each other on the Tower’s balcony, huddled under a thick blanket. Harry had Conjured it and draped it over them after Malfoy fell asleep, sometime between talking about their Astronomy O.W.L.’s and watching the stars. The funny part being, Malfoy had been the one so fixated on getting back to their dormitories, after.

Harry shifted, moving so he could see Malfoy’s face. Pale, almost glowing in the soft, early light, he looked peaceful and a bit happy, as if he were dreaming good dreams.

Harry smiled.

The stone floor was cold on his arse, the wall hard against his back, but Harry said nothing. He took off his glasses, placed it by his side, and closing his eyes, he rested his head back against Malfoy’s.

 

The new term started with a vengeance. N.E.W.T.’s were ‘only’ five months away, as their professors constantly reminded them. Apparently, this meant an even larger increase in workload from the previous term, which no one other than Hermione had thought possible.

“I don’t quite understand what these somber looks are all about,” Professor Beckwith told her Transfiguration class. Everyone, both Slytherins and Gryffindors, had just let out a collected groan at the amount of homework she’d assigned. It was their second day back.

“This is exactly what most of you came back for!” she said. “If you can’t handle this much, I can guarantee you won’t be passing your N.E.W.T.’s come June!”

Hermione looked ready to bolt for the library right then. Harry and Ron just glanced at each other, sighing.

Afterwards, their breaks, evenings, and oftentimes even meals became monopolized by essays, practice, and studying theories that, in class, might as well have been explained in Mermish. Seventh and eighth years could be found hunched over tables in the library from the minute it opened to the second it closed, and people often fell asleep in the common room, drooling over their half-filled parchments.

Still, Harry managed to find time for Malfoy.

It was their second week back. Harry was supposed to be practicing a new spell they’d learned in Defence, but in the empty dormitory, he was doing nothing of the kind. Instead, he was lying back on his bed, grinning up at Malfoy, who looked quite comfortable on top of him.

“Hufflepuff?” Harry said.

Malfoy nodded solemnly.

“Yes.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You’re joking,” he said.

“I’m serious,” Malfoy said. “After much consideration, I’ve decided I would rather be in Hufflepuff than Gryffindor.”

Malfoy’s hands were resting on his chest. Harry took them, intertwining their fingers.

“Why?”

Malfoy’s solemn lips twitched.

“The Hufflepuff dormitories are near the kitchens, aren’t they?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You can’t choose based on that!”

“Why not? I heard it’s nice and warm in there as well. The Slytherin dorms are the best, objectively speaking, but it does get a bit chilly in the winter.”

“And what’s so wrong with the Gryffindor dorms?” Harry said. “It’s nice and warm in here too.”

“I’d have thought that was obvious. We’re on the _seventh_ floor, Potter. There’s nothing around here other than –”

Malfoy paused.

“…the Room of Requirement.”

Harry looked back at Malfoy. Abruptly, he let go of his hands, and before Malfoy could say or do anything, Harry flipped him over on his back.

He smiled. “Let’s show Mr. Malfoy the merits of our dorm, then, shall we?” he said.

“What –?”

Harry caught Malfoy’s lips with his own. He kissed him until those lips curled up into a matching smile, and then he traveled down his jaw, his neck. Malfoy made a soft noise as Harry lingered there, knowing he would leave a mark but not caring. He loved that noise; always quiet, as if just for him, and somehow strained, as if he was holding back. Harry reached up to kiss him again, tasting him, moving with him in a way that felt natural now, even just after two weeks.

Harry undid his tie and was in the middle of unbuttoning Malfoy’s shirt when the dormitory door burst open.

“Oi!”

Malfoy violently shoved Harry away, and he fell off the bed, smacking his head on the stone floor with a curse. Ron slammed the door shut behind him.

“What the fuck, Weasley?” Malfoy hissed. “We said –!”

Ron waved him off, scowling. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Believe me, I didn’t want to do this either, but Ginny’s coming up here with Luna in about a minute and I figured you’d appreciate a warning.”

“You couldn’t send a Patronus?” Malfoy said, but Harry, getting up and rubbing the back of his head, shot him a look.

“Thanks, Ron,” he said.

“Yeah.” Ron ran a hand through his hair, trying to look anywhere but at Harry, who was trying to make himself presentable, and Malfoy, who, tieless and his shirt half unbuttoned, was putting a Disillusionment Charm on himself.

“Just go snog somewhere else next time, will you?”

They did. In the clock tower, hidden corridors, the Prefects’ bathroom, around grounds. Harry took to keeping the Map on him at all times, so that every time they met up, randomly or not, they could make sure no one was around.

Malfoy especially was keen on this. Once Harry showed him the Map, after marveling over it and then sulking a bit on how unfair it was for Harry to have had it all this time, Malfoy insisted on checking it all the time, almost compulsively, every time they saw each other outside of class.

The classes themselves were almost unbearable. The coursework was difficult, but Harry had an even harder time discerning one spell from the next with Malfoy just sitting there, close and yet so far away. Their classmates didn’t make it any better by teasing Harry on his ‘love confession’ before break. They explained it off as a joke that got out of hand, where Ron accidentally-on-purpose Confunded him for a few hours. People seemed to buy it. Malfoy would just smirk at him every time this came up, laughing when they met up later.

Outside of this, he spared Harry a glance only every now then in class, if just to glare and tell him to pay attention. Harry could see him flush a bit though, even from the opposite side of the room, and in those moments, he’d know they were thinking the same thing.

It really was an inconvenient time to be a N.E.W.T.’s student.

One night, Harry stood in the middle of a snowy expanse, the Black Lake behind him. He had his arms crossed and eyes closed, shivering as he listened to Malfoy trudging around in the snow.

He heard Malfoy start making his way back to him.

“Okay, you can open your eyes,” he said.

Harry opened his eyes. He saw a blank stretch of snow before him, wiped clean of even their footsteps.

“Now try it,” Malfoy said.

Harry sighed. He brought out his wand and placed it in the palm of his gloved hand, looking there instead of at the pink high on Malfoy’s cheeks and on the tip of his nose.

“ _Invenio ring_.”

Slowly, as if thinking hard about it, his wand jerked a little to the left, then to the right, then straight forward again. It stilled.

Harry let out a deep, cold breath.

“No chance it’s right in front of me, is it?” he said.

Malfoy scowled. “No.”

Lifting his own wand, he muttered, “ _Accio_.”

Far off to their left, a tiny object shot out of the snow and flew into Malfoy’s hand. They both glanced at the glistening, silver ring. Malfoy tucked it back in his pocket.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “You can perform the _point me_ spell just fine. Are you sure you’re really concentrating on the ring?”

Harry scowled. “That bloody ring’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past half hour,” he said. He put his hands in his coat pockets. “Let’s just leave it for today, all right? It’s cold out here anyway.”

“This is a basic tracing spell, Potter. You won’t be able to understand the theories behind much more complex Traces if you can’t even get this–”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

Malfoy glared. He was silent for a moment, then he looked back at Harry.

“Try it on me,” he said.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Malfoy pink cheeks seemed to turn pinker. “Tracing an object is usually easier than tracing people, but tracing is also easier the more you, um, care about the target. I don’t know if you remember, it was part of the homework assignment, but apparently tracing people like family and…the like can be especially manageable.”

Malfoy shrugged, not looking at Harry.

“So, if you want to try…”

Harry stared. He felt warm, all of a sudden.

“Sure,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’ll, er, close my eyes and count to ten.”

Malfoy nodded. He moved away again, snow crunching under his feet as Harry closed his eyes. It felt absurdly like hide and seek, though he’d never played it before. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

The night held a wintry silence as he counted off into the blackness, smiling and wondering if Malfoy could see.

“…eight…”

“Nine…”

“Ten.”

Ready or not.

Harry opened his eyes. Hesitating a bit, he took his wand back out and placed it on his palm.

“ _Invenio Draco_.”

His wand wobbled a bit, like every other time he’d tried the spell. Harry stared, feeling the beginnings of disappointment start to creep in when, suddenly, the end of it spun to the right, pointing at a thick tree not ten feet away.

Harry felt his breath catch.

Breaking into a smile, he took off in that direction. He rounded the tree, saw Malfoy’s flushed face, and he hugged him, laughing.

Malfoy laughed too, eyes sparkling in the snowy moonlight.

That weekend, Ron and Hermione proposed a trip to the Burrow. They hadn’t been able to visit at all during the holidays, and, they reasoned, they could probably do with a break from all the studying.

Harry had been planning to spend the weekend with Malfoy, but when Harry told him about the trip, he just took a bite of his custard tart, nodding.

“That works out well,” he said. “I’d been thinking I should visit my mother anyway. She’s still vexed I walked out on her during Christmas.”

“Oh.”

Harry looked away. After a pause, he took a forkful of Malfoy’s tart.

“Tell her I said sorry.”

Scowling, Malfoy brought his plate closer to him.

“Rest assured, she doesn’t even know you were involved. I simply told her Granger needed my immediate assistance on something.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “On what?”

“Which sounds better: Dark Object gone wild or some long-term Herbology project?”

Harry laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.” Malfoy smiled at Harry with a look that could have been halfway serious. “Anyway, I’ll think of something.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments, Malfoy eating his tart and Harry looking up at the familiar sky of stars and one crescent moon.

“I’ll miss you,” he said, quietly.

Malfoy seemed to pause. Harry looked over at him, smiling as Malfoy lowered his fork, looking back.

“It’s just two days,” he said. But he took Harry’s hand and leaned in to kiss him, tasting of custard tart.

They apparated to the Burrow from Hogsmeade; ‘they’ being Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. The trip there was awkward, filled with odd silences because Ginny had been avoiding Harry since the start of term.

Harry didn’t blame her. Not really. She’d only been trying to help, and Harry had ultimately been the one to decide whether or not to take the Antidote. Ginny, it seemed, didn’t feel the same way.

She came up to him once after he’d recovered, to apologize to him in a flat, deadened sort of voice, not meeting his eyes. She ran off before Harry could say anything, and since then, she walked out of any room Harry was in, avoided him in the corridors, and no matter what she was doing, promptly left when Harry came to eat in the Great Hall.

Neville wouldn’t talk to him either, not that he did much of that nowadays. He said he agreed with Ginny on the whole Malfoy matter, and that he was sorry, but he and Ginny both needed some time to think it over.

Harry remembered what it was like when he first knew Ginny. She’d run away from him in the same way, but back then, it’d been because she liked him too much. Now, he wasn’t sure if she liked him at all.

Malfoy didn’t know why Harry felt so bothered by this. He said, “Good riddance,” but that’s because he didn’t get it. Ginny was family. Sure, he’d avoided her for a while last year too, but now that the tables were turned, more than ever, he just wanted things to go back to normal.

Harry looked down at his hands. The room was quiet, the sky outside white with winter snow. He and the creaky, wooden chair faced her bed, her quiet, frowning face. They could hear the Burrow carrying on beneath them: Molly cooking; Arthur and Hermione talking; Ron, George, Bill, and Percy playing quidditch outside.

Ginny was also looking down at her hands. Small and warm, Harry remembered the last time he held them. Walking to Slughorn’s office, believing the worst. He could laugh at those memories now.

Ginny took a deep breath. She looked at Harry.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Harry smiled a bit.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” Ginny twisted her fingers. “Yell at me. Hit me. Do something.”

“I’m not going to hit you.”

“Then what’d you come here for?”

Harry sighed. He straightened up, looking at her.

“Ginny,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She looked away.

“Don’t,” she said. “It was my fault. All of it, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

“Ginny.”

She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. Harry sighed again.

“Ginny,” he said. “Listen to me. _It wasn’t your fault_.”

“You almost died, Harry,” Ginny said. She looked up at him, her almond eyes watery. “You can’t just say that’s all right.”

“Ginny, listen.” Harry leaned forward, his chair creaking. “I made the decision to take that potion. Me, not you.”

“Well, I didn’t give you any other option, did I?” She laughed bitterly. “I hate to say it, but Malfoy was right. I was an egotistical bitch, and that almost cost you your life.”

Harry sighed. “Malfoy…he was the one who told me he gave me a love potion. That’s why I took the Antidote, all right? It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

Ginny stared. “What?” she said. “But you – did the potion just not work or–?”

“He lied,” Harry said. What for, he still wasn’t sure. They hadn’t talked about it, other than for Malfoy to confirm that yes, he’d lied that snowy day, weeks and weeks ago.

Harry shook his head.

“Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, I had my reasons, so you don’t have to beat yourself up about it, all right?”

Ginny gave him a small smile. “You know it’s not that easy,” she said.

“I know.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “But I’m sick of not being friends. I reckon it’s about time we got past all that. Both of us.”

Ginny looked at him. She sighed.

“I don’t know,” she said. She tucked a lock of her long, red hair behind her ear, staring out the window. “I know he makes you happy. I won’t say I entirely understand, but I’ve seen it, and –” she looked back at him, “I’m glad you have someone like that. Really. But I just can’t get past the fact that it’s Malfoy.” She looked between his eyes, her soft, freckled face neither angry or ashamed anymore.

“It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” she said.

Harry left after, feeling like he hadn’t achieved much. Hermione said Ginny just needed some time to get used to the idea, and Ron burst out saying, “ _She_ needs time? I’m still trying to wrap my head around all this…”

Ron and Hermione accepted it, after a fashion. They had listened quietly when Harry told them what exactly had happened between him and Malfoy for the past year – well, perhaps not _exactly_. He told them how they’d gotten friendly up on the Tower, then a bit more than friendly.

How Harry had realized he liked Malfoy.

At the end, Ron and Hermione were silent for a few minutes. The fire in the common room was mere embers by that point, the room itself empty for the night. They glanced at each other. Hermione gave a small nod, and Ron sighed.

“I still don’t get what you see in the git,” he said. He looked at Harry. “But if he really means that much to you…”

Ron gave a jerky sort of shrug. Hermione laughed a little.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she said. “You know it is.”

 Then she gave him a stern look. 

“But you have to tell us next time. _Before_ you do something that might get yourself hurt.”

Harry broke into a broad grin, feeling lighter than he had in a very long time.

“All right.”

Ginny acted like she’d never accept him and Malfoy, but after their talk, she stopped leaving the room just because he was in it, and Harry saw that as progress.

Arthur didn’t ask too many questions on why the four of them hadn’t come home for Christmas. Molly tried, but eventually gave up when no one was willing to talk. Everyone just enjoyed the two days of Molly’s cooking, flying in the backyard, discussing anything other than their love lives – of being home.

They got back that Sunday night, and Harry spared only the time to drop his luggage off in the dormitory before heading off to the Astronomy Tower, ignoring Ron as he pretended to gag into the water pitcher.

Malfoy had waited.

He was on the balcony, sitting next to one of the telescopes. He was pink with the cold, and his lips were chapped, cool to the touch when Harry kissed him.

He pulled back. “Did you miss me?” he said.

Malfoy smiled. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders, bringing him close.

“Only a little.”

February came almost too soon, and with it the Valentine’s Ball. McGonagall announced, and thereby confirmed, its existence one rainy, January morning.

“The Valentine’s Ball,” she said, “will take place on February 12th, the weekend before Valentine’s Day. It will be held from 9 PM to midnight, and while this is not a requirement, students are encouraged to invite partners from other houses. Whether or not you decide to bring a partner, fourth years and up are all welcome to join.”

She paused, letting the disgruntled mutters from first to third years peter out before starting again.

“I must also remind you that while this is a celebratory affair, I expect behavior befitting that of Hogwarts students. You are more than capable of understanding what this means. Us professors will also be attendance, but do not make us work harder than we have to.”

A few students laughed at this. Most smiled nervously, unsure whether or not that was supposed to be a joke. Harry just grinned into his porridge, thinking of Malfoy.

“You can’t seriously be thinking of going,” he said, later that night.

Harry shrugged. He tried not to let the disappointment show on his face.

“Why not? It might be fun.”

The last time Harry went to a ball, he’d had pretty much no fun whatsoever, but now that Ron wasn’t sulking over Hermione and Harry wasn’t required to dance in front of everyone, the prospects for this one didn’t seem so bleak.

Malfoy gave him a disbelieving look.

“Yes, it might,” he said. “If we were thirteen.”

“We wouldn’t be able to go if we were thirteen.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Is that really the point here? Potter, we’re turning twenty this year. I’m an ex-Death Eater. You’re the Chosen One. We can’t go to this ball.”

“But that’s exactly it, isn’t it?” Harry ran his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. He was lying with his head in Harry’s lap, frowning up at him.

“We’ve just been through a war. Doesn’t that make you want to do these sorts of things?”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “No,” he said. “Near-death experiences make me want to stay away from crowds and loud noises, for some reason.”

Harry laughed.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said. It had been a part of why he hadn’t wanted to do quidditch this year, that and the fact that no one from his old team wanted to join either.

“But…” Harry sighed. “I dunno. What if I said I wanted to go with you?”

Malfoy scoffed. “I’d tell you to get yourself a proper date, Potter.”

Harry frowned. “You’re not a proper date?”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. When Harry didn’t say anything, he scoffed.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

Harry stopped his hand. “What?”

Malfoy stared. He scoffed again, and then sat up, looking at Harry.

“I’m not a girl, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’m still on probation for war crimes,” he said. “You’d get sent straight to St. Mungo’s if you showed up with me in tow.”

Harry blinked. “But…”

“But what?”

They were dating, weren’t they? Probably. It seemed like it, anyway, though they’d never actually talked about it. Of course, it had nagged Harry at first, somewhere in the back of his mind – what Malfoy thought about all this, why he’d let Harry in, what exactly they meant to each other, now that they’d come this far.

Harry looked away.

“Nothing,” he said.

They were silent for a few moments, but then Malfoy pushed Harry down, ignoring his scowl and the dull _thunk_ his head made when it connected to the floor. He climbed on top of him.

“I can think of something else we can do that night,” Malfoy said, smirking.

Harry tried to stay irritated, but failed utterly when Malfoy kissed him. Instead, he found himself smiling and holding Malfoy close as all thoughts of Valentine’s washed away, back to the distant corners of his mind.

This got a bit difficult in the following weeks. The entire student body seemed fixated on the upcoming Valentine’s Ball, talking about who asked who, who was going to play, who was sneaking in firewhiskey, who the eighth years were taking.

Ron asked Hermione the minute after McGonagall made the announcement, and she worried a little over the whole different houses bit, but accepted in the end. They asked if Malfoy was going as well. “No,” Harry said, and catching the look on his face, they said nothing more. Dean was going with Luna, but he wasn’t sure if it was as friends, and Seamus actually asked a Slytherin seventh year who accepted, blushing to the roots of her hair.

Harry seemed to be the only eighth year, other than Malfoy, who wasn’t going. People somehow got it in their heads that this was because he didn’t have a ‘proper date’, and everyone – other than Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville – felt like it was their responsibility to rectify this. Gryffindors tried to set him up, girls from other houses ambushed him in the corridors, and more than one of them rushed away from him in tears as he got more and more blunt in his responses.

Malfoy did not find this as amusing as Ron and Seamus did. Harry quickly got exasperated with this as well, considering he was the one who refused to go with him in the first place.

The actual day came as a bit of a relief. People had been getting desperate as the ball grew nearer, pushing poorly disguised love potions on him and trying to set him up with girls who didn’t even go to Hogwarts. One girl even offered to use Polyjuice to look like Ginny for the night, which disturbed everyone involved.

Harry had breakfast down in the kitchens – he stopped going to the Great Hall after Hermione overheard some girls planning to slip love potion into his morning pumpkin juice – and Ron and Hermione were trying to cheer him up about missing the ball, but he assured them that after the past few weeks, he was just happy it would soon be over.

Actually, he felt just as excited for tonight as everyone else, if not more. The dormitory would be completely empty for the night while everyone was out at the ball. He would be alone with Malfoy for hours, in his dorm, which, no matter what Malfoy said, was much cozier than the Astronomy Tower.

Ron opened his mouth, clearly going to ask about the stupid grin on Harry’s face, when they spotted a haughty school owl hooting at them from a window ledge.

Harry felt his grin start to fade.

He relieved the owl of her letter. She nipped at Harry’s fingers, aggressively or affectionately, and flew away.

“Who’s it from?” Hermione said, looking at it.

Harry just shook his head. He opened it.

_H,_

_My friends came up for a surprise visit._

_I’m sorry._

_\- M_

Harry stared. Ron and Hermione read the letter over his shoulder. When they finished, Ron scowled.

“Once a git, always a git,” he said.

Harry frowned. ‘Friends,’ Malfoy said. His friends had come up for a visit on the weekend before Valentine’s Day? He thought of the last ‘surprise visit’ Malfoy had gotten from his friends.

Harry felt the small stirrings of something like panic in his chest.

Which friends?

He looked at the letter for another second, thinking about answering. A moment later, he crumpled it in his hand.

Hermione looked at Harry. “He did say he’s sorry,” she said.

“I know.”

Harry put the balled-up letter in his pocket.

Ron and Hermione glanced at each other. They didn’t mention anything until half past eight. The common room was buzzing with excitement for the ball. Celestina Warbeck herself was coming, apparently, which Malfoy would have hated almost as much as Ron did. Most people were dressed up, including Ron and Hermione. Whereas everyone else was getting ready to leave, however, they were up in the dormitory with Harry, trying to convince him to go.

“You can’t just spend all night sulking here,” Ron said.  

Harry shook his head. “I’ll be fine. You two go have fun.”

“We can’t have fun knowing you’re up here pining over Malfoy,” Ron said. “ _Again_.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I should get some studying done anyway. I still can’t get that tracing spell right.”

“Harry,” Hermione said with a stern look. “You’re entitled to have some fun every once in a while. With _and_ without Malfoy.”

“And that’s coming from Hermione, mind you.”

Harry looked at them. He was sitting on his bed, a chocolate frog in his hand and _Quidditch Through the Ages_ open for the hundredth time in his lap. Hermione looked breathtaking in a flowy, blue dress, and Ron was handsome with a matching blue tie and his new dress robes.

What was Malfoy doing? He was with Parkinson and Zabini, probably, or maybe just Zabini. Doing whatever Slytherins liked to do on a Saturday night.

Harry sighed.

“Fine,” he said.

Hermione beamed. Ron pumped his fist in the air, saying, “Yes!”

He laughed.

Minutes later, they joined the crowd of people in front of the Great Hall. Harry was wearing his old dress robes, which were still tight despite using an _engorgio_ charm on it. The stretched fabric pinched at his arms.

Everyone seemed to stare as Harry walked by, muttering with their friends. He noticed one girl glaring at him, and he remembered, in that moment, he’d rejected every invitation with the excuse that he couldn’t make it to the ball.

Harry started to feel ill.

The doors opened. The scent of roses washed over them, with the hint of something underneath, and as everyone walked into the Great Hall, a soft, jazzy tune started to drift through the air.

The place had been transformed. They could still see the starry night sky above, but red roses seemed to cover every other surface. Vases of them adorned small, intimate tables near the walls, they climbed along the walls themselves, petals fell eternally from the sky, and Celestina Warbeck, singing on the stage across from them, had one in her hair. Dim candlelight illuminated everything with a soft glow, and everyone felt compelled to talk quietly, whispering in their partners’ ears.

Harry wished he were back up in his dormitory.

The party kicked up later, when The Weird Sisters made a surprise appearance, but by then, Harry was feeling less than inclined to join. He sat at a table, watching Ron and Hermione dance as he sipped at a glass of pumpkin juice.

Many people, even strangers, approached him to try and talk. They left quickly once Harry made it clear he wasn’t in the mood, and he hadn’t been bothered by anyone for a good ten minutes now. He put down his pumpkin juice, sighing.

Just as he was making his mind up to leave, someone left the dance floor and walked over to him. Looking at her, he smiled.

“Hi Luna,” he said.

“Hello, Harry,” she said, smiling back. She sat down at his table. “You look sad.”

Harry grimaced. “Do I?”

“Yes.” She sipped at her own glass of some bright, yellow drink. “You know, Dean Thomas is a very nice person.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, he is,” he said.

Luna looked over at the thinning crowd of people. They were dancing to a slow song, and Luna seemed to sway with them.

“They’re nice people too,” she said.

Harry glanced at the dance floor as well. “I suppose.”

Luna smiled. “Ginny, I mean,” she said. She looked at Harry. “And Draco Malfoy.”

Harry stared.

“He might have been mean before, but I think he’s different now. He’s not so afraid anymore, like all the nargles around him have floated away…we can really see him now. It’s almost beautiful to watch, don’t you think?”

Harry stared at a rose petal in Luna’s hair. He thought of Malfoy with bubbles in his hair, together in the Prefect’s Bathroom; he thought of Malfoy, warm and beaming, when Harry finally got the _invenio_ spell because of him; he thought of Malfoy, with him, running his hands through his hair.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s…”

Before Harry could think of a word for all this, before he was forced to think of one, Dean came up to their table.

“Hey, Harry,” he said. “Sorry, do you mind if I borrowed Luna for a bit?”

Harry blinked. Suddenly, he remembered that they had both dated the same girl once. He smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “No–”

Harry got interrupted by a sudden commotion at the doors. The three of them, along with several of the remaining partygoers, looked over as Professor Sprout tried to wrestle back a latecomer, who, from the sounds and looks of it, was completely pissed.

Harry jumped to his feet.

Ignoring the looks Dean and Luna gave him – confused and almost pleased, respectively – Harry rushed over just as Malfoy shoved Professor Sprout away from him, calling her a “useless b–”

Harry slapped a hand over his mouth.

People stared as Harry dragged Malfoy away, Professor Sprout, looking more outraged than he’d ever seen her, shouting 50 points off Slytherin.

Malfoy stopped struggling when he seemed to realize who exactly was holding him back from attacking Professor Sprout and possibly getting himself expelled.

He broke into a broad smile.

“Harry!” he said.

He twisted around and tried to kiss him. Harry pulled back, looking nervously around the entrance hall. It was empty for now, but quite a few people were leaning out of the Great Hall, looking at them.

“Not now,” Harry hissed, but Malfoy didn’t seem to hear him. He smelled like he’d just bathed in firewhiskey.

“Hey,” he said, as if he was trying to whisper. He wrapped his arms around Harry. “Fuck me.”

People were now trickling out of the Great Hall to get a better look. Harry wrested Malfoy’s arms off him, starting to think this had been a bad idea.

“Later,” he said. “All right?”

Malfoy frowned, then snuggled into Harry’s neck. He bit him, hard.

“ _Now_.”

Harry pushed him off. Staunchly ignoring the whispers from the Great Hall, Harry grabbed Malfoy’s hand and dragged him over to a nearby classroom, slamming the door behind them.

Malfoy rubbed his arm when Harry let go, glaring.

“The fuck did you do that for?” he said.

“My sanity,” Harry spat out.

Malfoy didn’t seem to get it. Instead, he sat down at one of the empty desks, groaning as he put his head down. He said something that got muffled by his arms.

Sighing, Harry sat down next to him.

“What?” he said.

Malfoy shifted his head to look up at him with one glaring eye.

“I said you’re bloody difficult.”

Harry scoffed. “ _I’m_ difficult?”

“Yes!” Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re so fucking difficult. I don’t get you; I don’t bloody get it. I don’t want this. I never _wanted_ this.”

Harry froze. “What?”

Malfoy opened his eyes. He shifted his head to look at Harry fully. He sighed.

“Merlin, you’re so pretty.”

Harry paused for a moment, then exhaled sharply. He ran a hand through his hair.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll stay in here until everyone leaves. I reckon it won’t take too long, but do your friends know where you are?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. He sat up, scoffing.

“Blaise can’t hold his drink.” He waved a hand, dismissing Zabini, and then tried to lean, or rather fall, into Harry. “He tried to get me drunk, but he’s a bloody idiot too. I’m much better than him.”

Harry held onto Malfoy, making sure he didn’t fall off his chair.

“What about Pansy?” he said, after a moment.

Malfoy frowned. “What?”

“Never mind.”

Malfoy was quite for a second, but then he sat up, tugging Harry’s arms off him. He grinned.

“Harry,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

“What?”

Malfoy grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him up out of his chair. He started to push the desks aside, clearing a space in the middle. After he tripped and crashed into a few, Harry took out his wand and magicked them up against the wall.

Malfoy looked around at the suddenly empty space. He smiled at Harry.

“I love you,” he said.

Harry blinked. He felt himself heat up.

“Um –”

Malfoy took Harry’s hand. Humming a waltzy sort of tune, he tried to drag them through an awkward dance. They stepped on each other’s toes and kept stumbling all over, laughing as Harry tried valiantly to keep them upright.

Eventually, they settled for a slow, swaying motion. The night was quiet now but for the occasional sound of students passing by or the distant noise of what seemed like Celestina Warbeck back on the stage.

Malfoy sang a soft song.

It was slow, like their dance, and it sounded breathy in Harry’s ears. Harry closed his eyes. He felt Malfoy against him. He smelled like firewhiskey and was just as warm, his thin hair soft against his cheek. His nose brushed Harry’s neck, tickling him. His body moved Harry’s. He kept them in time with the song, and Harry kissed just below Malfoy’s ear, holding him like he was drunk too.

He listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking of this jazz song, "I'm a Fool to Want You". Maybe Draco knows the magical version of that. Also, yay! I managed to include Luna in this story. She's a hard character to write, but I love her, so it had to be done. Hope you guys liked it!


	14. The Road Less Traveled

The telly was on. Again. Harry wasn’t sure how Malfoy fixed it, but there it was, running some show called _Friends_.

As if he needed the reminder.

Malfoy had his usual glass of white wine out. He was downing it faster than normal, and Harry kept glancing at it, waiting for him to reach the bottom.

When he got there, Harry was going to mention the memories. He’d decided. Malfoy still had half the glass left, so for now, the apartment was quiet but for the telly and the soft sound of turning pages.

Harry tried to read.

 _“Most Tracing spells have been adapted from the basic locating charm,_ invenio _. Much like a compass, it can be used to locate, not north, but any object you desire. This object can range from personal possessions to people…”_

Harry knew what to say. He’d talked it out with Hermione the other day. When Malfoy reached the bottom of that glass, Harry would tell him that, after tonight, they would take a break. They would stop being co-workers, acquaintances, friends – anything really, because, as Hermione firmly told him, that was the healthiest option for them both.

Malfoy could send Harry his memories, Harry could write him about the investigation, and Hermione could mediate anything in between. Harry didn’t have his feelings tying them together, and Malfoy…

 _“As with any other spell, the_ invenio _charm works best on inanimate items. The more personal the item is to the wizard, the easier it will be to locate. There are, however, some exceptions. When considering the level of intimacy between the wizard and his target, a strong, mutual connection can facilitate the performance of the charm…”_

This was what he’d wanted from the start. Whatever Malfoy felt, he still believed they were happier without each other. He didn’t even want to be friends, if the memories were anything to go by, and it made sense.

This was the best choice.

 _“This is especially true for particularly intense bonds between persons. Due to this, concerns initially arose on possible negative effects such strong emotions can induce in the target. However, unlike spells such as the Summoning Charm, no harm befalls a human target upon the performance of_ invenio…”

Harry just didn’t want to hurt him anymore. No matter how much he wanted to explore that brief happiness he saw in Malfoy’s memories, more than anything, he was sick of seeing that crumpled, lost, look of pain on Malfoy’s face.

 _“The_ invenio _charm can easily and safely be used to locate loved ones, including family members, lovers, and intimate friends. This basic feature can be extrapolated into much more complex Traces…”_

Could they stay away? The ridiculous question nagged at Harry, though he’d never admit it out loud. It was like they had this line between them, connecting them to each other. Bringing them back together, over and over again, piling onto their already messed-up history and adding more pain. Could they really just cut clean through all that and move on like nothing had happened?

 _“Intangible objects, such as words and ideas, are the most difficult to Trace. The_ invenio _charm itself cannot achieve this, but the same basic rules apply. The more involved the wizard is with the object, the easier it will be Trace. For example, the word ‘comb’ would most likely be much more difficult to trace than the name of a loved one…”_

They had to, didn’t they? They could comb through their past all they wanted, but the results would always be the same. They didn’t belong together, either as friends or anything more.

This was the only choice.

“Are you really reading that?”

Harry looked up. Malfoy was staring at him, his face a mix of boredom and exasperation.

“Yes,” Harry said, frowning.

“What’s it about then?” Malfoy crossed his arms. “And no peeking,” he added.

Harry only had time to re-read the title of the book before he was forced to flick his eyes back up at Malfoy. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Er, tracing,” he said. “It’s about Tracing.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Tracing?”

“And the, uh…” Harry racked his brain, trying to remember. “ _Invenio_ charm.”

Malfoy blinked. He narrowed his eyes.

“And why in the name of Merlin,” he said, “are you reading that instead of any of the other books I gave you on the Vanishing Charm?”

Harry froze. He’d actually gotten this book, _Facing Tracings,_ from Hermione a few days ago. He’d mentioned their progress on the Neo investigation, or lack thereof, while discussing Malfoy with her, and, with a thoughtful look on her face, she’d plucked this off her bookshelf. “I don’t know the details, of course,” she said, “But if you’re trying to track mysterious letters, this might come in handy.”

Harry tried not to look too guilty.

“I thought it might come in handy,” he said.

“And you just decided this all on your own?”

Harry glared at Malfoy. Malfoy looked back, as if he knew everything already.

“Yes,” he said.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. He drew himself up, pursing his lips.

“And you didn’t think to inform your partner about this?” he said.

Harry blinked. His mind stalled a bit on the word ‘partner’.

“Er – sorry?” he said.

Malfoy exhaled sharply. He drank the last of his wine. Licking his lips, he leaned on the table, hunching back over his book with his head in his hand.

“I’ll let it slide this time, since Traces actually might be relevant,” he said. “But from now on, run it by me first before you start looking into something new.”

Harry stared at Malfoy’s empty wine glass, heart beating fast.

“Yeah,” he said, vaguely. “I will.”

Malfoy didn’t seem to hear him. He turned a page in his book. They usually met up in the weekday, after Malfoy got off work. Tonight was the first time they’d met up during the weekend, discounting the night Harry barged in drunk. Malfoy wasn’t wearing his usual button-down, but a black, knitted sweater that looked good against his pale skin. His hair wasn’t slicked back either. Instead, it was loose and falling into his eyes.

Harry felt a sudden urge to push that hair back; to run his fingers through those soft locks and smile as Malfoy smiled, his long fingers sliding up the back of Harry’s neck, guiding him down for a kiss…

Harry pushed away from the table violently, hitting his back against the couch. Malfoy’s glass fell off, shattering, and Malfoy himself jerked back as the edge of the table caught him in the chest.

“Fuck!” he cried out. Rubbing his chest, he glared at Harry. “What the fuck was that for?!”

Harry felt himself heat up.

“Sorry,” he said. He was breathing fast, blood racing in his veins. “I-I thought I saw a spider.”

Malfoy furrowed his brows. “What?”

Harry’s heart stopped. Right. Malfoy probably knew he didn’t mind spiders at all.

“Er, it was huge!” he said. He climbed up on the couch, looking around at the floor. “And-and fuzzy…”

Before he could get any further, Malfoy immediately shot to his feet.

“What?” he said, his voice higher than usual. He looked wildly around his feet, backing away. “Where?!”

Harry stared. When he didn’t say anything, Malfoy looked back at him.

“What?” he said. “What – is it near me? Do you see it?!”

Harry couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. Malfoy froze. He looked confused for a second, making Harry laugh harder, but then confusion turned quickly into anger. He stomped over to Harry, smacked him upside the head, and kneeling down, took out his wand to repair his wine glass.

“Real funny, Harry –” he said, picking it up.

Malfoy stilled. Harry heard his breath catch. He also felt his smile start to fade, but before they could lose the moment, he leaned over Malfoy.

“I wasn’t lying…” he said, and then, grinning, he ran light fingers up the back of Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy yelped, dropping his glass again as Harry leaned away, laughing.

Malfoy turned around and shoved him. “Fuck you!”

Harry bounced back into the couch, and, laughing, managed a weak, “Sorry.”

Malfoy looked as if he wanted to push him again, but, his lips thinned, he just turned back around to fix his glass of wine one more time and put it back on the table. He returned to his side, not looking at Harry.

“Er…”

Harry slid off the couch. He sat back on the floor and watched as Malfoy roughly turned another page in his book.

“Malfoy?” he said.

“What?”

Harry hesitated. “Are you actually mad?” he said.

“Yes.”

Harry fell silent. Malfoy pretended to read for another second, and then, scowling, he slammed his book shut. He looked up at Harry.

“Did you even look at the memories?” he said.

Harry felt a chill run through him.

“Yes,” he said, slowly.

“Then what the fuck are you playing at, Potter?”

Harry sighed. He glanced at the empty wine glass and then back at Malfoy.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s it?”

Harry scowled. He closed his book too.

“What do you want me to say?”

Malfoy scoffed. He crossed his arms again. “That you understand!” he said. “That you’re not going to make this any harder for me than it already bloody is!”

Harry felt this like a blow. Understand? Hadn’t he _been_ understanding up till now, or at least trying his bloody hardest to be?

“Then tell me what I should do,” he said. “Stay away? Cut all ties? What was it you said that night – ‘be the smart one’?” Harry leaned forward on the table. “Is that really what you want, Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked back, defiant.

“Yes,” he said.

Harry stared, the edges of _Facing Tracings_ digging into his arms. Malfoy’s wan face was wrinkled up into a familiar anger, etched in with bold lines that looked painfully permanent; as if he had never laughed with Harry up in the Gryffindor dormitory, or kissed him in the snow.

Harry stared, and everything he’d talked about with Hermione, everything he’d been so determined to say just minutes before, washed out of him.

Leaning back from the table, Harry started to get up.

“Come on,” he said.

Malfoy blinked. He uncrossed his arms, looking up at him warily.

“What?” he said.

Harry grabbed his coat off the couch and, taking Malfoy’s keys off the kitchen counter, headed for the door.

Malfoy got up. “Hey –!”

“You want me to be the smart one?” Harry said. He looked back at Malfoy’s confused, still angry face. He jangled his keys.

“Then from now on, we’re doing this my way.”

 

A few minutes later, they were in the Ministry. It looked disturbingly like the last time Harry had been there after hours: empty, dark, and oddly silent. Their footsteps echoed in the large hall, and neither of them said anything as they crossed the black Atrium.

Malfoy jumped a bit when the elevator clanged open. Harry gave him a look. Malfoy scowled. Harry tried to hide his smirk as they walked in, and he managed to keep a straight face as he pressed the button for level nine.

Malfoy looked at this, then back at Harry. He pursed his lips.

“Whatever you’re planning on doing,” he said. “I’d advise you to keep in mind that there are documentative devices now. They’re all throughout the building, even in Mysteries.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Relax, Malfoy,” he said.

“Tell me why we’re here.”

Harry glanced at him.

“Research.”

“What?”

“I told you we’re doing this my way, didn’t I?” Harry said. He looked up, watching the numbers slowly climb. “Well, I reckon we’re wasting our time with the Vanishing Spell. We should look into Traces instead.”

Malfoy stared. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I am.”

Malfoy scoffed. He stepped back a little, shaking his head.

“Hang on. Does that mean we’re going to the Mysteries Archives right now?”

The elevator juddered to a stop.

“Yup.”

The black hallway brought back disturbing memories, but Harry tried to push this aside. He was there with Malfoy, whose shoes clacked sharply against the floor, not even trying to be quiet, and though he didn’t say anything, his scowl conveyed everything loud and clear.

Harry almost caught himself smiling.

The door at the end of the hall swung open at Malfoy’s touch. He strode right into the circular room with the confidence of familiarity, and Harry tried not to flinch as the door shut closed behind them.

He braced himself.

The walls spun, leaving a blue streak in his vision that remained even after it came to an abrupt halt before them. Harry blinked rapidly.

Malfoy, hands in his pockets, sighed.

“Show me the Thought Chamber,” he said.

A door to their left opened, revealing odd, greenish light. Harry walked in first.

It looked exactly like it had the last time he was there. In the middle of the room stood the large tank full of brains, and Harry froze, staring. He could almost hear Ron’s hysterical laughter as he Summoned one of them over; could remember as the room stilled, watching with horror while _thoughts_ carved themselves into Ron’s skin.

Harry took a deep breath. Exhaling sharply, he looked away. He met Malfoy’s eyes. He had stopped too and was staring at him, lips parted as if on the verge of saying something. When Malfoy caught him looking, he quickly averted his gaze. He didn’t say anything as he continued into the room.

Harry followed.

They went through a maze of rooms, though luckily not through the one with the veil. Instead, they crossed places with everything from simple cubicles to one empty of everything except words written all along the walls, floor, and ceiling. Harry lingered there, trying to read something he soon realized wasn’t in English. Malfoy, tutting, dragged him away.

Finally, they reached their destination. It was cool, the air bone-dry. The door closed shut behind them with the sound like a vacuum, and side by side, they faced the Mysteries Archives.

Shelves upon shelves of musty, old books and parchment stretched endlessly. On the nearby walls, there were faded desks, waiting to be used, and except for the close sound of his own heartbeat, the place was dead silent.

Malfoy sighed again.

“Coffee?” he said.

 

Hours later, Harry was sat at a rickety, round table, so deep within the Archives, it was almost hard to believe anything existed outside of this quiet, dry place. Malfoy had gone off somewhere to find a book, but he wasn’t sure exactly how long ago that’d been. He wasn’t even sure how long they’d been there. Harry had lost count of how many times he’d refilled his cup of coffee.

Harry went for another sip, only to find that it was already empty. He cursed. Taking out his wand, he tried to refill it using the dried-out dregs, but it only tantalized him with a more potent smell of the Ministry’s wretched coffee. Harry groaned.

He placed his head down on his book. It smelled faintly like vomit. Sighing, he pushed it away, taking off his glasses. He put his head in his arms, blocking out the room’s stale, white light. He closed his eyes.

What did he want to achieve, by doing all this?

More time, maybe. If he could make Malfoy see his side, just a little, maybe they could come out of this as friends. Harry didn’t know why this was so important, or how solving the Neo-Death Eater case would improve their situation any, but it felt better than just sitting back and letting things die between them.

Hermione was definitely going to scold him later.

Harry yawned.

He would explain it to her. He’d prove it to her and Malfoy that they couldn’t just break things off, pretend like they didn’t care…and who wouldn’t care? After seeing all that, after seeing Malfoy like that…

Harry yawned again.

Maybe he’d take a nap like this. Malfoy wasn’t even there to see…

Traces and spells ran through his mind, dancing before his closed eyelids before drifting off into the darkness. He must’ve read of at least a hundred by now, everything from _vestigium duco_ to _invenio_ …

The locating charm, _invenio…_ used to find the objects you desire…items…people…people that you cared about _…_ he cared about…

…in the dark, Harry was walking. His arms and legs felt somewhere close by as night pressed against his eyelids. The snow was bright. He saw it on the trees; trees that he knew, somehow, belonged to the Forbidden Forest. He walked and walked, searching – for what, he wasn’t sure – he only knew that it was important, that something horrible would happen if he didn’t find it, and in the darkness, he heard whispers.

“ _Invenio…invenio…_ ” they said.

After several minutes – or hours – of this, Harry realized the whispers were coming from his own lips.

“ _Invenio_ ,” he said. He crossed through the snow, between trees, whispering the spell like a prayer.

_Invenio. Invenio. Invenio..._

“ _Invenio Draco!”_

Harry caught his breath. The wide, white bank of snow stared back at him, empty of people, trees, footsteps. He looked down at the wand in his hand. It wobbled. He stared until it spun, suddenly, to a large tree off to his right.

His insides burst with joy.

Tucking his wand back into his pocket, he ran across the snow. He rounded the gnarled, old tree and Draco turned around to greet him. Laughing, Harry embraced him, and he felt a deeply rooted happiness that was as real as Draco’s skin, his voice, his own soft, surprised laughter whispering, light, in his ear.

“You found me,” Draco said.

Harry pulled back to kiss him. In that moment, he knew that nothing was more precious than this man in his arms, against his lips, standing with him, always.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “I found you.”

Harry startled awake. A sharp pain bloomed on the side of his head, and he rubbed at the spot, groaning.

“Finally,” said a familiar voice.

Slowly, Harry sat up, blinking at the sharp light. An indistinct blur was sat next to him, but Harry could recognize that pale hair and voice anywhere.

“Did you just hit me?” he said.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Malfoy said. “But that’s beside the point.”

Harry put on his glasses, grumbling.

“I was having a good dream,” he said.

“Did I ask?”

“No, but…”

…it was about you.

Harry froze. He hadn’t registered the weirdness of it at the time – he was dreaming, after all – but Merlin, that had been _Malfoy_. Malfoy who made him feel like that, Malfoy whom he’d wanted to kiss and touch. Looking back at him, Harry could still feel the lingering joy from his dream, the need for _this man_.

Harry breathed in sharply. He put his head in his hands, leaning on the table.

It was a dream.

A dream, a dream, a dream –

“Potter?”

Harry exhaled. “I just…need a moment,” he said.

“All right,” Malfoy said, after a pause. “While you do that, listen to this. Earlier, I mentioned how if the letters work through a Trace, words would be the most logical object to anchor the spell, right?”

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt. Malfoy went on.

“And what word occurs, without fail, in every single one of their letters?”

Harry thought for a moment, and then, sighing, he sat up. He looked at Malfoy.

“The X Society,” he said.

Malfoy gave a satisfied sort of smile.

“Exactly,” he said. “Now, this would obviously allow them to locate the letter, but if, like you said, the Vanishing Spell has nothing to do with sending it to them, the Trace would ultimately become useless when the entire letter got Vanished. Because of that, I initially scrapped the idea, but then I came across _this_.”

Malfoy gestured to a book in front of him. The thick tome looked as if Malfoy had dug it out of someone’s grave. Judging by the sore bump on his head, Harry was almost certain this was what Malfoy used to wake him up.

Malfoy opened it up to a page near the end. Its spine crackled like old bones, and its pages were dense with uninterrupted lines of a language that definitely wasn’t English. Harry just looked back at Malfoy, his eyebrows raised.

Malfoy smirked.

“It talks about a spell that works in conjunction with the tracing charm, _evellio verda_ , which essentially locates written words,” he said. He ran a pale finger down the page, brows furrowed. “This spell charms an object, usually a piece of parchment, to duplicate the written contents of any other object that contains a given, key word. If this is what the Neos have been using for their letters, we might be able to work backwards on their Trace to locate the charmed parchment. It’s a complicated spell, so it might take some time…”

Harry stared, processing this. When he didn’t say anything for a few seconds, Malfoy turned to him, looking wary.

“Of course, they might be doing something entirely different,” he said. “I can’t imagine this spell being very ideal if multiple people are writing letters at the same time, but if they figured out a way around this – I mean, it doesn’t sound too difficult, considering –”

“You’re right.”

Malfoy stopped. Harry looked at him, laughing a little.

“Merlin, Malfoy, you’re bloody right. This – this is it!” Harry laughed again. Fatigue, relief, and a certain lightness washed over him, leaving him lightheaded. Jumping out of his chair, he hugged Malfoy.

“You figured it out!” he said.

Malfoy stiffened.

Harry froze. Rationality hit him like a punch from the Whomping Willow, and Harry immediately pulled back, away from Malfoy.

“Sorry,” he said.

Malfoy shook his head. He looked a bit dazed too.

“It’s fine.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Harry sat back in his chair, fiddling with the edge of his sweater. He cleared his throat.

“Do you want to try it out, then?” he said.

Malfoy gave him a sharp look. “What?”

Harry blinked. “Er, your theory. Do you want to try it out?”

“Oh.” Malfoy colored a bit. He looked away. “What, write a letter?”

“Yeah.” Harry looked around their table. It was littered with unorganized notes, piles of books, and their empty coffee cups. “We can just take a blank piece of parchment and write –”

He broke off, struck with a sudden realization.

“Hang on,” he said. He looked back at Malfoy. “If the Neos can see everything that’s written on the X Society, doesn’t that mean they have access to all our reports?”

Malfoy’s mouth thinned.

“Yes,” he said. “At least, all the ones we’ve written after discovering their name. It’s unfortunate, but other than alerting them of our investigation, I don’t think we’ve told them much.” He gave a dry laugh. “Well, not that there was anything _to_ tell until now.”

Harry nodded.

“All right. So, we’ll just make sure not to mention them in our reports from now on –”

“I don’t think that’ll be wise,” Malfoy said.

He frowned. “What?”

“Think about it.” Malfoy crossed his arms, leaning on the table. “They’ve been receiving report after report of our research on the bloody Vanishing Spell. What would they think if those suddenly stopped coming in?”

Harry met Malfoy’s eyes. He groaned.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said.

Malfoy sighed. “There’s no way around it. We’ll have to take turns writing up the reports, if it comes to that. First, we should check if I’m right.”

Harry leaned back in his chair.

“So, we’ll write them a letter, like you did last time. Except this time, we won’t Vanish it.”

Malfoy nodded. “And if they send someone to the specified location…”

“Then we’ll know we’re on the right track.”

“And if they don’t…”

Harry leaned forward to close the book he’d been reading, reveling in the sheer finality of it. He smiled grimly.

“We’ll deal with it then.”


	15. The Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know it's been a while, but I just couldn't leave this story alone! 
> 
> I also couldn't help going back and reading everyone's comments. They made me realize I really didn't want to leave you guys (and Harry and Draco) hanging. Thank you to everyone for your support and patience so far! @BummedOutWriter, your comment especially gave me the push I needed to keep going with this story, so thank you so much! 
> 
> So with that, enjoy! (or well...you'll see)

“Malfoy went after him, it sounds like.”

“I heard Harry took pity on him…”

“Reckon Malfoy slipped him something?”

“I can’t believe he’s bent!”

Harry gritted his teeth as he walked through the corridors. Eyes and whispers followed him wherever he went. They were waiting for him to explode, it seemed like, as he’d done before, blurting out the truth to the question on everyone’s minds since the Valentine’s Ball:

What exactly was going on between him and Malfoy?

Harry scowled. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d experienced when he broke up with Ginny – all the rumors, the stares, the questioning. At least then, he could retreat back into the Burrow.

Now?

There was no escape.

“Did Malfoy do something to you, Harry?” Hannah Abbott asked the other day.

“We should run a couple tests on you, just to make sure…” said a group of fifth-year Ravenclaws.

Seamus, the day after, simply came up to him and asked, “Are you mad?”

Harry got sick and tired of saying every variation of “There’s nothing going on between me and Malfoy” over the next several days. Hermione reminded him that some of them, at least, meant well. Ron said Harry should just tell them to fuck off.

He wanted to. He very much wanted to. But what bothered him most wasn’t the questioning or staring or whispering.

It was Malfoy.

Harry quickly realized something was wrong the day after. Malfoy didn’t contact him at all, even after Harry wrote to him. He figured the idiot was simply hungover, maybe even a little embarrassed. Then he didn’t show up to the Tower.

Nearly every night after Harry regained his sanity, they’d met up there – to talk, to fly, or to just be with each other. It had been exactly like before, but for all the snogging. This sudden absence spoke volumes, and Harry was reminded of how stubbornly Malfoy had avoided him after their first kiss.

As if he’d let either of them go through that again.

They had three classes together on Mondays. If Malfoy didn’t want to talk to him, he could try – despite his track record, Harry was confident he could catch him sometime during the day.

He’d underestimated the git.

On that particular Monday, Malfoy sauntered in at least twenty minutes late to every class, ignoring all the sudden whispers and Harry’s increasingly irritated looks. Harry dared not pass him a note – not with everyone glancing back and forth between them every five seconds – and after, his supposed partner kept reaching the door so fast he might as well have disapparated.

Harry felt seriously ticked off. He couldn’t believe they were back to this, even after the Affection Antidote, the snogging, the way Malfoy looked as Harry tasted him for the first time the other night, the sheer hours spent together over the past several weeks.

So what if people knew?

When the bell rang for their last class, Harry abandoned his things to rush out after him.

“Malfoy!” he said.

Malfoy didn’t even turn around. He did walk faster, nearly running, but as the corridor filled with people, he was forced to slow down. Harry caught up to him just as he was rounding the corner.

“Malfoy!”

Harry managed to grab his arm, and right then, he wished they _could_ apparate in Hogwarts. People slowed down in the corridor to look at them; many even stopped to openly stare. Malfoy glanced around at everyone, turning pink, and as adorable as that looked on him, it somehow didn’t fit with the deadly glare he sent Harry’s way.

Harry let go.

“Listen –”

“What more do you want, Potter?” Malfoy said.

Harry stared. “Er, what?”

Malfoy turned to face him fully, and Harry could almost feel everyone in the corridor lean in with him.

“I already apologized for what happened at the Ball, haven’t I?” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t have taken a dare so seriously, but I was a bit pissed, if you couldn’t tell. Get Granger or one of your pet professors to dock points off me for it if that’ll make you feel better. Just let me alone.”

Harry blinked. A dare?

So that’s how they were going to play it?

In that moment, he bit back everything he wanted to say. Malfoy was flushed, furious, and neither of them could ignore the slowly growing crowd around them. He curled his hands into fists, looking between Malfoy’s hard, grey eyes.

If only he knew Legilimency…

“Fine,” he said.

That night, Harry skipped dinner. He wasn’t hungry. He lay in his bed instead, quietly fuming. It was a bit brilliant. As annoying as he found it, a dare might have been the best excuse they could come up with for the git’s behavior that night. Now people wouldn’t suspect. But then again, what did it matter if they did?

So what if they were…

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

He shouldn’t have cornered Malfoy like that, after class. He knew, but what choice did he have? If he let Malfoy have his way, they’d end up right back where they started, or worse. He felt anxious. Anxious and worried and, to be honest, a bit afraid.

Why had Malfoy lied about giving him a love potion all those weeks ago? Did he care that – officially, at least – neither of them liked blokes in the first place? What of the fact that the last time they actually talked about any of this, they’d decided to be friends? And why didn’t he tell Harry that Zabini visited him on Valentine’s?

Harry sat up, running his hands through his hair.

It seemed ridiculous, having these sorts of thoughts. It’d never been so difficult with Ginny. If he were rowing with her, they wouldn’t have any of this avoiding nonsense. Ginny would inevitably find him, and they’d have it out until either her or Harry got too tired to go on. Although now that Harry thought of it, they had only ever really rowed about Malfoy.

Harry sighed.

What did he have to do to keep him by his side?

Malfoy didn’t come to the Tower that night either. Harry hadn’t expected him to. Instead, he took his Cloak and sought him out.

He was in a hidden corridor on the fifth floor. The place was bare but for arched windows that revealed the clear, night sky. Malfoy was sat by one on a plush, green loveseat he’d probably Conjured himself. He had his back to the armrest, his fancy dress shoes lined up neatly by the foot of the sofa. A book hovered in the air in front of him, and he was staring at its yellowed pages with a bored look on his face.

As irritated as he was with him, Harry couldn’t help but smile at this. Slowly, he crept up behind him and leaned in right by his ear.

“Draco,” he whispered.

Malfoy jumped. The book dropped, bouncing off his lap and sliding onto the floor, and Harry took off the Cloak, laughing.

“Bloody prat!” Malfoy said. He turned around to shove him, but Harry just grabbed his arm, ignoring his protests as he climbed on top of him.

“Missed you too, you git,” he said.

“Potter –”

Harry cut him off with a kiss. It was brief, like taking a much-needed breath, but as Harry pulled away, he felt Malfoy tilt his chin up for more.

Harry let out a light chuckle.

Pink and scowling, Malfoy tried to turn away. Before he could, Harry caught his mouth in another kiss, one that lasted long enough to have them gasping into the sparse air between them. Harry pushed Malfoy further into the sofa, tasting him – his scent, his musk, his sweat, his skin. It had just been two days, but Harry kissed him like it’d been two lifetimes, and Malfoy grabbed his hair, pulled him close, kissed him back.

They pulled apart eventually. By that point, Harry had almost forgotten why he’d been irritated in the first place, but it all came back with Malfoy’s next words.

“You should leave,” he said.

Harry felt his smile start to fade.

“What?”

Malfoy looked away. He pushed at his chest.

“Just go, Potter.”

Frowning, Harry leaned back, but he didn’t leave.

“Why?” he said.

Malfoy closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. He opened them again to glare at Harry, and it was an all too familiar look. He just wasn’t sure why he was getting it now.

“I need some time to think.”

Harry stared. “Think?” he said. “Think about what?”

“First, get off me. You’re heavy.”

Glaring now as well, Harry climbed off Malfoy to sit on the other end of the sofa. It was cold.

“What’ve you got to think about, Malfoy?”

“Have you really got to ask?”

Harry crossed his arms. “Is this about what happened at the Ball?” he said. “Yeah, you acted like an idiot. So what?”

Malfoy scoffed. His cheeks were still pink. “So what? So, the whole school thinks their Chosen One is a bum-fucker. So, that bum belongs to me; so, I’m a bum-fucker as well; so, we’re two bum-fucking faggots and the whole school bloody knows it!”

Right. So they were dealing with that first, were they? Harry uncrossed his arms, sighing.

“For starters,” he said. “That fucking bit’s not strictly true yet, is it?”

For all his fury, Malfoy’s thinned lips twitched. “That’s the part you’re focused on?” he said.

“And I don’t give a damn what other people think. Do you?”

Malfoy gave him a look.

“Yes,” he said. “And you should too.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Just because I happen to like a bloke?”

“Because you happen to like me.”

“And what’s so wrong with you?”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. At Harry’s look, those eyebrows dropped down, cinching together.

“Harry,” he said.

Harry blinked. He loved it when Malfoy said his name. He didn’t do it often, but that made it all the more special. It always sounded so soft and natural coming out of his mouth, as if it were a secret kept just between them.

It made him feel bold. Quickly, Harry took one of Malfoy’s arms – his left arm – and before he could protest, he pushed up his sleeve.

“Because of this, you mean,” he said.

They both stared at the Dark Mark. In the dark and heat of the moment, they could both forget about it, but in the empty corridor, it was clearly there – jet-black and jarring. It still foreboded death somehow, despite the absence of its master. Looking at it, Harry remembered the Astronomy Tower; he remembered the fear and the dread.

Malfoy jerked his arm back. He tugged his sleeve back down, not looking at him.

“Yes,” he said. “Add that to the fact that I’m a bloke, and we’ve got a proper riot on our hands.”

Harry tried to meet Malfoy’s eyes. “Are you scared?”

Malfoy looked at him. “I don’t care what happens to me. But my family’s reputation, not to mention yours…it’s just too much at risk. It’d be better to stop this. We shouldn’t have even–”

“Hang on – what?”

Harry stared. He felt oddly still, as if time would stop with him. Malfoy looked off to the side.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said. He spoke quietly, but firmly, as if he’d said this already many times before. “It won’t end well for either of us.”

“Just because of a couple stupid rumors?” Harry laughed a little, disbelieving. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Malfoy gave him a sharp look. “Those stupid rumors could ruin us, even if you’re too much of an idiot to realize it.” He rubbed his left arm, frowning. “I could never do that to my family.”

“Do what?” Harry said. “Date me?”

“Date a man.”

“But –”

“I’ve told you before, haven’t I?” Malfoy said quickly. “That I’m meant to marry.”

Harry shook his head. “That again?”

“Yes, that again.” Malfoy frowned, looking at him. “Did you really think that would go away just because of a couple snogs?”

Harry scoffed. A couple snogs?

“No,” he said. “I figured you’d just grown up a bit.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re adults now, Draco.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. Harry pretended not to notice. “I reckon we can make our own decisions about who we can and can’t date, don’t you?”

Malfoy’s face flushed. He sat up.

“I’m saying this because we’re adults, Potter! We can’t keep playing around like this –”

“You think I’m playing around?”

“That’s all this is in the end, isn’t it?” Malfoy said. “It’s not like we could ever _be_ anything –”

“What d’you mean ‘be anything’?”

Malfoy threw his hands up. “We can’t marry! People like us – like me – they can’t have families, they can’t be anything other than miserable old bats ostracized from society!”

Harry shook his head. “What the bloody hell are you on about? We’re talking about us!”

Malfoy made a frustrated noise, almost growling. He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Harry, I’m saying we can’t do anything with –” he gestured the space between them, “ _this_ other than ruin our reputations!”

Harry leaned back. “Our _reputations_?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “Yes, our reputations. You think this is a joke? That I’ve come back to this ghastly school just to get pissed or have fun?”

Harry scowled. “So what if you did?”

“Stop being so fucking dense, Potter,” Malfoy hissed. He leaned in close. “I came to show I’m not secretly plotting revenge with my mother back at the Manor, or scheming to get my father out of Azkaban or any one of the million bloody things people think of me. I’m here to show everyone that the Malfoys – that I’m – not a fucking Death Eater.”

Malfoy kept his grey gaze steady on Harry.

“And I won’t risk that just to get in your trousers, Potter. Even if you are the Chosen One.”

Harry looked back.

“So, what are you saying?” he said. “This doesn’t mean anything? We don’t mean anything?”

“No, we don’t.”

Harry fell quiet. He felt blindsided, furious, and it was all so familiar. He was taken back to that summer afternoon over a year ago, when Ginny told him just how meaningless their time together had been as well.

“What about Zabini?” he said.

Malfoy furrowed his brows. “What?”

“You know. You’re mate, Blaise.”

“What about Blaise?”

Harry curled his lips, though he felt himself shaking.

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” he said.

Malfoy gaped. “ _What?_ ”

Harry wanted to shut up right then, but he couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth.

“You heard me. That’s what he came for, wasn’t it, on Valentine’s? I bet you’d ‘be something’ with him –”

“He’s my friend, you fucking idiot!”

Harry went up on his knees, blood rushing in his ears. “And what are we, Malfoy? What the fuck are we?”

“Haven’t you been listening?” Malfoy said. “We’re nothing!”

Harry grabbed his wrist, forcing him close. “No. You don’t get to say that!”

“What do you want, Potter?” Malfoy yelled. “Want a go at me too, is that it? See what it’s like before running back into the Weaslette’s arms?”

“Yeah, maybe! That’s all this is to you anyway, isn’t it?”

“Right, I’ve just been after your dick this whole time –”

“Fuck you, Malfoy!”

“No, fuck you, Potter! Just get the fuck away from me!”

“What, so you could take your slag arse over to Zabini?”

Malfoy punched him. Harry fell to the floor, and Malfoy followed, climbing on top for another swing, but Harry caught him in the middle and pushed him down. Malfoy struggled, but Harry pinned his wrists above his head and managed to keep him there. He looked at Malfoy beneath him, and his skin was red, his eyes were red, but maybe Harry was just seeing red, then they were just looking at each other, their breaths the only sound in the empty corridor.

“Going to fuck me, then?” Malfoy said.

Harry said nothing.

After a few seconds, he laughed. “Well, do me a favor and flip me over first,” he said. “I’d rather not see your face.”

Harry wanted to punch Malfoy in _his_ face. He wanted to kiss him like before. He wanted to run away. He wanted to go back in time.

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

He sat up, not looking – not seeing – the night sky beyond the windows, the old book lying on the floor, Malfoy’s staring eyes, or his own shaking hands.

Without another word, he left.


End file.
